


Wonderland

by Jackie Thomas (Jackie_Thomas)



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Case Fic, M/M, Reference to kidnap rape and murder but nothing graphic, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-30 14:01:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8535940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackie_Thomas/pseuds/Jackie%20Thomas
Summary: ‘People come and go,’ they are told.  ‘This is Soho.’





	1. The boys are back in town

**Author's Note:**

> This story alters what we know of Robbie’s pre-canon chronology. It borrows the mechanism of time travel from the BBC TV series, ‘Life on Mars’ (but isn't a crossover). Thanks to Divingforstones and ComplicatedLight for sandwich advice. I had forgotten they used to make egg mayonnaise with salad cream. And thank you to Divingforstones for her support and encouragement!

 

Sonny’s Strip Club is on the awkward junction in Soho where Wardour Street meets Old Compton Street and Brewer Street.  Its black façade displays neon signs advertising ‘girls’ and ‘lap dances’.  Next door, on the corner, is a bookshop with signs in the window warning off under eighteens.  James sits with Inspector Lewis in the café opposite, the remains of lunch and coffee in front of them.

“What kind of sandwich was that, Hathaway?”  Lewis asks. 

“Mozzarella, pesto and sundried tomato on olive sourdough.  I did ask for cheese salad.” 

“Soho’s changed,” Lewis says squinting at a text.  “Markham’s on his way.  There was a hold up with the warrant.” 

The club and bookshop are both owned by a man named Sonny Campbell.  His bookkeeper, Marissa Xavier, is missing and Inspector Lewis has taken an intense interest in the case since he found out about it two days ago.  He is convinced Campbell is involved in the disappearance although, as far as James can see, there is no evidence.  More to the point, this is London which does not, by any stretch, fall within Thames Valley’s jurisdiction. 

“It’s good of you to come,” Lewis says.  “I could use your eyes and ears in there.” 

“Of course, sir.  I just don’t understand why we’re involved.” 

“I know I should have told you.  I didn’t want you to think this was a personal grudge.  Although, in a way, it is.” 

James is surprised by this admission.  For all Inspector Lewis’ single-minded focus on the job, James has never known him to be anything other than disinterestedly professional. 

“You know this used to be my patch?”  Lewis says. 

“You worked in London?” 

“I did three years in Vice when I first became a DC back in the seventies.  Two years in Newcastle and one down here, based at West End Central nick.” 

“West End Central?  That must have been an eye-opener.” 

“You’ve heard of it, then?  Of course you have.  At the time, every other shop round here was a clip joint or a porno book shop, most of them run by organised crime and openly breaking the law.  The police were no better than the criminals; taking bribes to look the other way. It had all blown up with a scandal before I got here and there were prosecutions of senior officers going on.  But as far as I could see it was business as usual.” 

“Did Sonny Campbell own the club and shop back then?” 

“He did.  I can’t believe he’s still here; the last man standing practically.  But he was guilty of more than a few mucky magazines.  The strip club was basically an extortion racket and see those posh offices above the club?  That used to be a knocking shop.  A lot of the girls who worked for him; the dancers and bar staff and what have you, ended up on the game.  God, it was bleak.  He controlled them with drugs, with violence, with debt.  I don’t need to paint you a picture.” 

“But you couldn’t prove anything?” 

“Me and Markham were trying.  He was my DS back then, when our DI was a drunk we never saw.  We couldn’t make a case because no one would talk to us.  Then one of his girls disappeared.  A young dancer by the name of Chrissie Simons.  There were a few disappearances associated with Campbell.  More than average to my mind, but it wasn’t the sort of life to encourage permanence and it was hard to know for certain what had gone on.  In this case the circumstances were suspicious.” 

“How so?” 

“Chrissie had wanted to talk to the police about what Campbell was doing, even give evidence against him.  She wasn’t daft though, she wouldn’t trust any one of us at West End Central so she spoke to a semi-retired Oxford DI by the name of Fred Thursday.  He was her friend’s dad from back home.  Markham had worked for Thursday in the East End when he first started out, and Thursday asked him to keep an eye on Chrissie.  We tried but she went missing after that anyway.” 

“Did you find her?” 

“No, we never did and she’s still a missing person.  But the investigation never got off the ground.” 

“Why was that?” 

“I left London.”  His expression hardens and James sees they have reached the most difficult part of the story.  “I was a few doors away from here with a friend, a girl I’d only met the day before.  We’d been for lunch at a Chinese chop suey place and we were just leaving when a car came out of nowhere.  It hit her and killed her instantly.” 

“You think it wasn’t an accident?” 

“The car practically drove on to the pavement to get us before reversing and driving away.  It was meant as a warning for Markham to leave well alone and it was just bad luck the car missed me and hit her.  I didn’t cope very well; I started drinking, getting stupid.  I threatened Campbell a couple of times.  Markham could see the way I was heading so he got in touch with Thursday who pulled some strings to get me transferred to Oxford.  I sorted myself out after that, but the case was never pursued.  Markham was on his own then and no one else was interested.  I should have stayed to finish the job.  I’ve always regretted that.” 

“What makes you think Sonny Campbell has anything to do with Marissa going missing?” 

“There is no way he isn’t involved,” Lewis says firmly.  “You’ve seen her picture on missing persons, haven’t you?  That black hair.  She’s older than Chrissie was when she disappeared, but she’s the image of her.”  He must see something in James’ expression because he says, “Look, I appreciate you giving up your time for a shot in the dark.  I know it’s your day off.” 

“It isn’t a problem, sir.  Honestly.  I’m glad to help.” 

Inspector Lewis sits back, having said all he intends to. It is the most James has learned about his life in the months they have worked together.  He knows Lewis is a copper through and through, with few friends or social connections beyond the job, and just one brief marriage to Laura Hobson behind him. 

His career in Oxford has been marked by constant change.  Even after he became a sergeant, he moved from one department to the next; a year here, a year there.  Always steady and diligent, never putting down roots or exceling.  It wasn’t until he finally made Inspector, working under CS Wild, that he could start to run cases in his own, brilliant way. 

Even then, until James arrived, he went through sergeants at about the same rate as he had gone through inspectors, ruffling feathers with his high standards and work ethic. 

None of this has been a problem for James.  He is not inclined to friendship or sociability himself and can keep up with anyone’s hours.  He has enjoyed the quiet compatibility he and Lewis have developed which does not often test his inspector’s notoriously short temper.  The truth is, he has found himself slipping unexpectedly into devotion. 

Half an hour later Lewis stands saying, “Here’s Markham.” 

A man a few years older than Lewis, tall and slim in a well-tailored suit, is getting out of a marked police car with a couple of uniformed Met officers. 

Lewis throws down some notes to cover the lunch bill, gesturing to James to put his money away, and they go outside. 

“Robbie,” Markham says, shaking his hand.  “Good to see you again.  You’re looking well.” 

“You are too.  Not retired yet?” 

“Too much fun still to be had, you know how it is.” 

“This is my sergeant, James Hathaway,” Lewis says.  “Hathaway, this is DI Andrew Markham, the only honest copper at West End Central.” 

Markham laughs, “When dinosaurs walked the Earth.  It’s all changed now.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” James says as they shake hands. 

“You too.  You couldn’t have done better for an Inspector.” 

“Yes, sir, I’m learning a lot.” 

Lewis gives him a rare smile.  The smile that invariably brings a warm flush of colour to his face.  Lewis is decent enough not to notice but Markham raises an eyebrow. 

“Any progress in locating Marissa?” Lewis asks. 

“Unfortunately not,” Markham says. 

“What do you know about her?” 

“Quiet woman, thirty years old, lives with her family in the suburbs.  She works for a firm of accountants out in Harrow and they send her to do the books for a few different smaller businesses around here.  There isn’t any hint of trouble with anyone and no sign she was likely to disappear voluntarily.  Her husband seems to think something was bothering her the night before she disappeared but their kids were both sick so he didn’t have a chance to ask her about it.” 

“And that was after doing Campbell’s books, I take it.” 

Markham smiles grimly, “You’ve got it in one.  She’d been using the office at the back of the bookshop for a couple of days.  Campbell says she left at six but she never made it home.  The thing is though, the assistant who was working in the shop that day hasn’t turned up for work since.  His flatmate says he suddenly decided to pack up and go home to Oz.  We’re still trying to track him.” 

“So we’ve only got Campbell’s word?” 

“I noticed that too, Robbie.  Shall we take a look?” 

*~*

The club is open and they wait in the lobby while Sonny Campbell is found by one of his staff and brought upstairs.  He is of a similar age to Markham but small, solidly built and almost bald.  He greets them warily, gazing in surprised recognition of Inspector Lewis.  

“This brings back memories,” he says as he reads through the warrant document and nods them in. 

They have authorisation to search the premises for Marissa Xavier or any sign she has come to harm here.  Because of a lack of evidence, the judge has refused to allow anything more than a look inside all the rooms.  No cupboards, paperwork, phones or computers. 

The five of them split up to search the two different floors of the club, James going downstairs with one of the uniforms. 

The bar and performance area is at basement level.  Here a small afternoon crowd is watching a teenage girl draping herself around a pole.  At the sight of the police, the crowd starts to disperse. 

They cover the front and back stage areas downstairs while Markham and Lewis search the viewing booths and more functional rooms on the ground floor. 

These are small, narrow uncluttered spaces; rooms where business of a particular sort takes place but, beyond that, there is nothing suspicious. 

The warrant covers Campbell’s bookshop next door and James takes in the racks of magazines and DVDs.  An assistant perched on a stool behind the counter watches him anxiously, but there is nothing too objectionable here.  Nothing illegal certainly. 

He asks the assistant where the door behind him leads and he is shown into the office where the club and shop admin take place.  It is a decent sized room, with two desks, filing cabinets and boxes of stock piled up in corners. 

The smaller desk with its elderly computer is where they should be looking.  It is where Marissa worked.  What if she discovered something she shouldn’t have while she examined the incomings and outgoings of this business?  This business that could be sold for millions; sitting as it is on an incomprehensibly valuable piece of the West End.  But if she didn’t find anything, and this is just the revival of an ancient obsession of Lewis’, then Markham needs to know so he can focus his efforts elsewhere. 

He finds Lewis and Markham outside.  Lewis is clearly disappointed and Markham gazes dejectedly at his fingernails. 

“I’ll keep trying,” Markham says, pushing back a silvery wave of hair.  “If Marissa doesn’t turn up by tomorrow I’ll get resources to check CCTV.  We’ll at least be able to find out if she ever left.”  

Markham promises to keep Lewis informed and, as he wants to get on, they forego a catch-up pint and say their goodbyes.  Lewis and James head off for Brewer Street where the car is parked. It is still early and James is formulating a plan to make the best of his day off and, if Lewis doesn’t mind driving home alone, taking in an exhibition at the V&A.  

*~*

Suddenly Lewis is turning and exclaiming, “Hey!” 

James turns too.  There is a woman; without shoes, her dress torn at the shoulder running down the road toward them. 

“Bloody hell,” Lewis says and calls out to her, “Marissa, wait!” 

She is running haphazardly but when she sees them she veers away, starting back the way she came, back toward Sonny’s.  James goes after her, faster than Lewis, but pauses when he sees he is only panicking her further.  

He holds up his badge, “We’re police, Marissa.  You’re safe now.” 

She stops outside a boutique.  Music floods from the shop but she seems to have heard him.  He takes a few cautious steps forward and she lets him approach.  But then without looking or hesitating, she runs straight out into the road.  She does not see the car coming too fast around the corner. 

In a blur of instinct, James shoots forward, pulling her from the car’s path.  He loses his balance, slips and hits the ground to the sound of screeching brakes. 

He knows he is going to lose consciousness and the last thing he hears is Lewis shouting his name over the sound of The Boys Are Back in Town blaring from the shop.  

*~*

He comes to lying on the pavement as Thin Lizzy rise to their final chorus.  At first his eyes are sensitive to the light, but as his vision steadies itself, he sees two people kneeling beside him; Inspector Lewis and a woman, though not Marissa. 

“Sir,” Inspector Lewis says, “Are you all right?”  

Why is Lewis calling him ‘sir’? 

He squints up at them.  The woman is in her twenties with sharp, green eyes, fine features and bubble permed brown hair.  Lewis comes slowly into focus too.  Except, now James sees it is not his governor but a younger man, in his mid-twenties too. 

“Where’s DI Lewis?”  He asks, trying to follow the direction of his voice. 

“Thanks for the promotion, but its DC.” 

Lewis must have been hurt too.  James tries to struggle up, but they keep him still. 

“The man I was with.” 

“We didn’t see anyone, did we Robbie?”  

“You were on your own,” the man says.  “You pushed us out of the way of a car.” 

Thin Lizzy fades into Roxy Music and he lets his eyes close again.  Lewis must be off somewhere helping Marissa. 

“I’ll call an ambulance,” the woman says. 

“Val, be careful.  That car was aiming at us.” 

“I will, I’ll call from the café.” 

“Sir,” the man called Robbie says in DI Lewis’ voice.  “Try to stay conscious, can you do that?” 

He opens his eyes, more slowly this time.  He feels okay.  He hit the ground hard and made contact with the car on the way down, but nothing hurts enough to be broken.  He can move his arms and legs, his head is aching but he can move that too.  He is reasonably sure he has not damaged his spine or anything else crucial. 

“I think I’m all right,” he says and this time, Robbie helps him sit up. 

He puts his head in his hands to cope with the dizziness and nausea brought on by this gravity defying move but when he looks up, hoping to find the world settled back to normal, he is disappointed. 

Flared trousers. 

He sees men’s and women’s legs clad in flared, but seriously flared, trousers.  Jeans, corduroy, suits, casual, formal.  Women pass by in platform shoes and American Tan tights.  Maxi skirts, gipsy prints, jump suits.  Furthermore, there is something wrong with the colour balance.  Everything is too bright and yet there is too much brown. 

He makes himself look beyond those legs.  It is the same shop-lined street as before, Wardour Street, but it is all so very different.  In front of him the Vietnamese street food outlet, the digital media company, the fantastically niche boutique have morphed into the Taboo Revue, Kramer’s ready to wear shoes and a Chinese café advertising Chicken Chow Mein for thirty-five pence. 

None of it is right.  It looks like it might have looked back in – 

He turns to Robbie, and sees very clearly and undeniably his inspector.  But how he must have looked when he was a young man in -  

In the 1970s.  

This is a hallucination of some kind, he concludes, a lucid dream, probably relating to a head injury.  This is a man he once saw in a photograph.  Creases smoothed away, a full head of dark hair, clear, concerned blue eyes.  The collars on his shirt are a finger width wider than usual, his tie a little more unspeakable, but otherwise his style of dress is conservative and familiar. 

Robbie puts a hand on his back, “Want to lie back down?  You’ve gone a bit green around the gills.” 

Green. 

He looks down at himself. 

Green. 

A lime green suit.  Fabric the result of some unfortunate lab accident.  Flares.  No, make that bell bottoms.  A pale green shirt.  A paisley print kipper tie. 

Polyester, nylon.  Man-made fibres.  There are practically sparks coming off him. 

He passes out slowly into Robbie’s arms. 

*~* 

He is awake again by the time the ambulance arrives, sitting between Val and Robbie, his eyes closed, his head safely back in his hands.  When he finally looks, the two ambulance workers are wearing smart blue uniforms with shirt and tie when they should be in practical dark green and the ambulance is white instead of yellow.  It has an orange stripe along the side instead of yellow and green checks.  Even the siren sounds different. It just goes on. 

He gets into the ambulance without protest.  This is an illusion so he might as well roll with it.  In reality he is heavily medicated in a hospital bed or on an operating table.  He should not be worrying about all this, he should be worrying about the condition of his real body, his real brain. 

And yet. 

And yet, this world lacks the non-linear strangeness of a dream, it is as solid and vivid as any waking reality.  He can hear voices and traffic outside, taste blood from a small cut on his lip, feel grit in a graze on his hand, smell the clean wool of the blanket he is covered in. 

He closes his eyes again and waits while Robbie exchanges a few words with Val and climbs into the back of the ambulance with him.  He finds it simplest not to answer any questions about his name or date of birth and Robbie’s hand goes into his jacket pocket, retrieving what must be ID. 

“His name’s James Hathaway,” he reads. 

Which is something at least. 

“He’s a policeman.  Detective Constable from Thames Valley.  That’s a coincidence, I think we might have been expecting him.” 

Constable?  Unacceptable. 

When James eventually opens his eyes, Robbie has not got any older.  He gives him a smile and pats his shoulder. 

“Nearly there.” 

The smile confirms this as a hallucination.  It is the smile that could belong only to Robbie Lewis; the smile guaranteed to make him swoon like a fictional Victorian heroine.  But it is warmer, friendlier, more unguarded.  It is the smile of a man more carefree than the Robbie Lewis he knows could ever have been. 

*~* 

They wait with the other walking wounded on moulded orange plastic chairs in St Thomas’s Hospital Casualty Department and James tries to catch the hallucination out.  He looks for anachronisms; for a computer screen behind the reception desk, for surreptitious texting, a coffee in a Pret’s cup, a Beyoncé t-shirt.  He looks for a crack in the façade and is fascinated to find none.  As far as he can tell, it is all perfectly correct in its period detail, right down to the pattern on the Princess Anne headscarf of the woman sitting next to him.  He picks up an abandoned newspaper.  It is 3 June 1976. 

1976 and only June.  The long, hot summer of swarming ladybirds and parched reservoirs is ahead and he hasn’t yet been born. 

James is called and a nurse runs through tests.  When she asks him questions to check orientation, he makes use of the information he gleaned from the newspaper, keeping Tony Blair to himself in favour of Jim Callaghan when she asks the name of the prime minister. 

Despite knowing how impossible this all is, he wants to persuade Robbie, who has wandered into the bay with him, he is uninjured.  Dreamland or not, he knows there is work to be done.  

He is seen by a doctor with flightworthy shirt collars, sideburns and a long drooping moustache.  He declares him free of injury, including to the brain. 

“You probably just had the wind knocked out of you,” the doctor says dismissively. 

“He had a nasty run-in with a car,” Robbie says.  “So can you make sure he’s all right.” 

The doctor visibly resists telling Robbie to, ‘cool it’.  He scribbles down notes, tells James to come back if he passes out or throws up and discharges him.  

*~* 

James studies the world from outside the hospital.  The Thames running low and murky under Westminster Bridge.  The Palace of Westminster across the river, sooty from pollution before its eighties clean-up.  On the road Cortinas, Escorts and Minis chug past. 

“Have you never been to London before?” Robbie asks. 

“It was different when I was here before.” 

They catch a bus from outside the hospital, hopping on to the open back of a Routemaster.  He watches as Robbie buys two tickets for pennies and the conductor manufactures them from a whirring machine hung around her neck.  There is a string to pull if you want the bus to stop, it makes a bright little ding. He never lived in London and would have done this only once or twice as a child.  Where has he retrieved such vivid detail? 

“Your badge says Thames Valley police,” Robbie says.  

“I work in Oxford.  Are you the DC Lewis from Clubs and Vice?” 

“That’s right.” 

“Fred Thursday sent me.  He asked me to speak to Chrissie Simons and then link up with you and DS Markham.” 

“We heard you couldn’t come because of a murder enquiry.” 

He shrugs, pleased at his good guess, “They could spare me.” 

“There’s been a development,” Robbie says. 

“Go on.” 

“We can’t find Chrissie.” 

“Since when?” 

“She hasn’t been at work in two days.” 

“Could she have taken off under her own steam?” 

“That’s what we’re hoping.  Markham is calling her mam in Oxford. If she hasn’t turned up there we’ll start looking.” 

They pass a pigeon infested Trafalgar Square and get off the bus at Piccadilly Circus.  The hoardings advertise Cinzano and Wrigleys chewing gum but the statue of Eros, like Lewis, is a reassuring fixed point. 

“Stay tonight at the Police Residence,” Robbie suggests.  “Hopefully Chrissie will turn up.” 

“Thanks, I will.  Robbie, back on Wardour Street, you said the car targeted you deliberately.” 

“No question.  If you hadn’t appeared one of us could have been killed.” 

“Val,” James says.  “It would have been Val.” 

“Aye, you’re probably right.” 

If he was really here, he would have changed history. 

“Are you and Val seeing each other?” 

“Only just met,” Robbie says, with a smile.  “At a Midnight Addictions gig in Hammersmith last night.” 

“Esme Ford?  That’s a blast from the past.” 

“Excuse me for being four minutes behind the times.” 

James finds a packet of Benson & Hedges with a lighter in his pocket and thanks his subconscious self for putting it there.  He notes Robbie’s disapproving look. 

“You know that’s no good for you, don’t you?” 

The world starts to make sense again. 

They reach Savile Row; the street graceful and peaceful after the bustle of Piccadilly, its bespoke tailoring establishments immune to the passage of time.  An elegant 1930s building houses West End Central Police Station where the notorious Clubs Office is based.  He sees Robbie’s whole demeanour change as they enter the department and the officers they encounter, both uniform and CID, fall silent when they see him.  Robbie Lewis isn’t trusted here.  James is both angry at this and proud. 

He follows him into a small, file cluttered office where he is introduced again to Andrew Markham, a detective sergeant in seventy-six, sharing an office with an absent Inspector Lott. 

Robbie nods over at the empty DI’s desk, “Late lunch,” Markham explains. 

Markham stands taller in his younger years, inhabiting his height in a way James could never manage, with a comfortable, languid ease.  He has a lot of fair, wavy hair which often needs pushing back from his eyes.  This gives him a bohemian aspect which only a seventies detective could get away with.  He makes James feel awkward and clumsy but Robbie visibly relaxes as they enter the office and close the door. 

“This is DC James Hathaway,” Robbie says.  “Thursday sent him down.” 

“Good to meet you, Hathaway,” Markham says.  “I thought DS Morse was coming?” 

That was a name he knew. Inspector Lewis had spent a few months as Morse’s sergeant in the late eighties and, despite falling out with him over a case, had spoken of him in uncharacteristically favourable terms.  

“He’s still involved in the murder enquiry, unfortunately.” 

“Well, you’re very welcome here.  I heard what happened.  How are you?” 

“I’m fine, sir.  Thank you.” 

“And Robbie, you’re convinced it was a deliberate attempt on your life?” 

“If it wasn’t, where’s the car?” 

“Did you catch the registration?  Or get a look at the driver?” 

“Nah, it was a turquoise Morris Marina but the plates were obscured and the driver had his face covered.” 

“One of Campbell’s men?” 

“I’d guess Sergio, too tall to be Ricky, but I couldn’t swear to it.” 

“I’ll follow up on the car,” Markham says.  He turns to James, “Presumably you’ve heard the news.” 

“About Chrissie disappearing?  Yes.” 

“Did you speak to her mother?” Robbie asks. 

“She’s not heard from the girl and she’s sure Chrissie would have come straight home if she wanted to get away.” 

“We need to assume the worst,” James says. 

“Agreed,” Markham says.  “Go and see Campbell, Robbie.  Both of you go.  Hopefully she’s turned up for work but if not, talk to the staff at the club, one of them might know something.”  

Robbie suggests they stop at the canteen for a bite to eat before Sonny’s opens for the evening and they head down to the basement. 

It is a windowless room, every bit as grim as James would have imagined a seventies police canteen to be.  The piles of flavourless mince and soggy cabbage turn his stomach although Robbie does not have a problem and cheerfully shovels down his portion.  Neither does he seem to notice the looks he gets from other officers or how some of them pointedly move to tables away from him. 

“What did you do to upset all these people?” 

Robbie glances around, “Nothing much.  Arrested some criminals, refused to take money from gangsters or collect protection for top brass.  That doesn’t go down too well round here.” 

“It doesn’t bother you?” 

“Of course it does, Hathaway.  It makes me ashamed of my badge but I’ll stay while I can work with Markham and still do some good.  There are people here who need us.” 

“Does Markham get the same treatment?” 

“No, he’s the senior officer, he gets the death threats.” 

“Things will change, sir.” 

“Who are you calling, sir?” 

 _“Hathaway_?” 

A radio in the kitchen plays tinny pop and the DJ announces the next song over the pounding guitars of its intro.  The Boys Are Back in Town, Thin Lizzy.  Just charted at number 48 but on its way up. 

James’ vision blurs and he feels as though he is being pulled violently from deep water.

 _“Hathaway.  James.  It’s me, Lewis.  They said you can probably hear me.”  It is Inspector Lewis, not his younger dream-self.  James tries to open his eyes but all he can see are the cabbage-y colours of his dizzy spell.  “You’re in St Thomas’s Hospital because a car hit you.  You’re all right, there’s nothing wrong with you, but you need to wake up.  Can you try and do that?”_  

“It’s not that bad, is it?”  Robbie says.  “I suppose Oxford nick serves pheasant every Monday.” 

He is in a coma in 2006 and Inspector Lewis is calling him. 

“What’s the matter?  Hathaway?” 

He tries to find his way back to the older voice but it is gone. 

The music abruptly stops and the buzz in his head quietens.  He responds to the concern in the younger man’s voice, forcing open his eyes. 

“Look,” Robbie says.  “At the risk of sounding like your mam, shouldn’t we go back to Casualty?  Get them to take another look at that head of yours.  Find a doctor who hasn’t come off the Sergeant Pepper cover.” 

“Nice pop culture reference, sir.  But not necessary, honestly.  I’m fine and I want to work.” 

While he knows rationally this whole situation cannot be real, he is finding it impossible to think of it in terms of a dream or a hallucination, it just doesn’t have that quality.  It must, it has to be, a narrative produced by his mind to make sense of the world after his accident but it feels like something different.  It feels as though he has been sent by Fred Thursday, whose name is a slice in time, to help Robbie find Chrissie Simons. 

“All right,” Robbie finally says.  “But if you call me ‘sir’ again, I’m ringing for another ambulance.”

 


	2. Not an ordinary sort of policeman

Sonny’s Strip Club occupies the same physical space as it does in 2006 but somewhere along the way it upgraded itself.  In seventy-six there are no discretely blackened windows and retro neon.  In this place, at this time, when there are dozens of similar clubs in stone-throwing distance, it does not need to disguise itself, it just needs to compete.  Customers must be lured in to be separated from their cash and bold messages with grimly explicit photographs leave no doubt as to the services offered. 

Robbie points out Campbell’s men, Sergio and his brother, Ricky, who wear evening suits and work as doormen.  They know Robbie and nod them both in without making eye contact.  An older female cashier in fingerless gloves, wrapped in a fox fur stole, occupies the ticket booth. 

“Evening Martha,” Robbie says.  “Where’s Mr Campbell?” 

She sends them downstairs, where they find Sonny Campbell at the bar. He is wearing a well-cut evening suit too but, otherwise, in his early thirties, looks much the same as his older self.  He will age as large men often do; carrying his mean-baby face down the years.   When he sees Robbie, he comes to greet them, sizing James up with mild interest. 

“You’re far from home, son,” he says when James produces his warrant card. 

“You’ve no idea.” 

“We’d like to speak to one of your employees,” Robbie says.  “Chrissie Simons.” 

“Chrissie?”  He says brooding over the request as if it were a tricky accounting problem.  “Done something, has she?”                                            

“It’s a police matter,” Robbie says. 

“Hasn’t shown up in three nights.  If she comes back she’s getting the tin-tack.” 

“Then we’ll have a word with some of your staff,” Robbie says. 

“About what?” 

“About the whereabouts of Chrissie Simons.” 

He considers this and shrugs, “Don’t bother the customers.” 

“I’ll bother who I want to bother,” Robbie says and James can’t help but smile.  Robbie’s never played the game, he doesn’t care who's winning. 

The club is gearing up for evening trade with a decent crowd already in.  A blonde woman is on stage taking her clothes off to a Donna Summer song, while more young women and girls work the floor chatting up customers and getting them to spend money. 

The staff, without exception, are reluctant to speak, some are openly hostile, all say they have not seen Chrissie in days and do not know where she is.  They find a couple of girls who are clearly underage, others who are half-way high.  One, calling herself Lulu, leans on Robbie’s arm and tells him Chrissie has ‘gone to Wonderland’.  James can see the anger rising in Robbie, sees what it costs him to do nothing. 

“Campbell’s done something to Chrissie because she tried to speak out,” Robbie says when the blonde stripper tells James to ‘get lost’ and they get nowhere with the other performers and backstage staff.  “The rest of them are scared to death.” 

They leave the club by the stage door and try to gain entrance to the upstairs flat which houses the brothel.  There is no answer so they go next door to question the bookshop assistant; a young man with longer hair than his 2006 successor but just as discomfited by their presence.  

The shop’s layout is similar to the last time James was here, although instead of DVDs there are actual books, both hardback and paperback, sold alongside the magazines.  The assistant watches them anxiously but again, they find nothing close to being illegal. 

“It’s all pretty harmless,” he observes, turning the pages of one of the books which features women posing suggestively, a mouth making the shape of an O, a breast, a thigh.  “Unless you count the inherent misogyny.” 

“The nasty stuff will be by request only,” Robbie tells him.  “But I’ll bet you anything it’s here.” 

He is irritated enough to go looking for it and asks the assistant to unlock the office. 

In 1976 the room is shabbily decorated.  Because it is so unfinished, it is possible to see it has been constructed by partitioning off the back of the shop.  It had been an amateur job, the partition walls made of cheap plasterboard, scarcely flush and roughly painted over. 

“I wonder what limited editions they keep behind there,” Robbie says pushing at a suspiciously redundant extra piece of boxing in.  “How do you get in?” 

“Lewis, Hathaway.”  It is Markham, who has come in quietly and is standing at the office door.  “Leave that, let’s talk outside.” 

“Have you found anything?” He asks when they have left the shop. 

“No one’s seen or heard from Chrissie since Friday,” Robbie tells him.  “Or if they have they’re keeping it to themselves.” 

“Campbell must have made some calls,” Markham says in virtually a whisper.  “I’ve been warned off the case.” 

“That didn’t take long.  By who?” 

“Straight from the Chief Super, via Lott.” 

“Out of the pub long enough, was he?” 

“Look, knock off for the night.  I’ll go to Commander Mallory in the morning.  Chrissie has parents who are bothered about her, they can’t just sweep this one under the carpet.” 

“What does he mean by ‘this one’?” James asks when Markham has said goodnight and they are making their way to a nearby pub.  “Are there others?” 

“We suspect so but it’s a shifting population with these clubs.  We’ve never had missing person reports or a clear-cut case like this.” 

The money in James’ wallet, which did not look enough for bus fare, turns out to be a small fortune so he gets the drinks in. 

“What did you make of what Lulu said?” He asks when they have settled down with their pints.  “About Wonderland.” 

“The kid was as high as a kite on the Chinese heroin he feeds them.” 

“I know, but it sounded like something.” 

Robbie acknowledges this with a nod, “Could be another club.  Something of that sort.”  

“Does Campbell own any other businesses?” 

“Not so far as we know, but it’s worth checking.  Or we could just ask Lulu if she ever comes back down to earth.” 

“Maybe it’s something to do with drugs,” James suggests.  “Alice in Wonderland could be read as a kind of trip.” 

“Another name for heroin or what have you?” 

They ponder this over their drinks, James’ mind sailing off course as usual.

“There’s a neurological condition called Alice in Wonderland Syndrome,” he says. “Which makes you think your body is expanding or shrinking.” 

“Is there?” 

“It influences your perception of time as well; it makes you think you’re running fast when you’re hardly moving.” 

Robbie gives him a look which says ‘and this is relevant, how?’  James has momentarily forgotten Robbie is not Inspector Lewis, or not yet, and isn’t used to him. 

“Lulu was probably just high though.” 

He wonders briefly if he has an extreme case of the syndrome, some new and dramatic variant.  His perception of time does seem a bit off. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Robbie says, interrupting his ruminations.  “But you’re not an ordinary sort of policeman, are you?” 

“That’s been said.” 

“I mean, you’re the first copper I’ve known who picks up one of Campbell’s dirty books and says ‘inherent misogyny’.  I take it you’ve got a few O’levels and such.” 

“I read theology at Cambridge.” 

“Not your traditional route to CID.  Believe in all that, do you?” 

“Do you?” 

He’d had this conversation with Lewis once before and it was the nearest they had ever come to an argument, but Robbie takes the question seriously. 

“I’m a detective, I need to see evidence before I can believe in something.” 

“I wish it were that simple for me.  I was going to be a priest.” 

“Are you sorry it didn’t work out?” 

It is a simple question, kindly meant, which he finds impossible to answer.  Especially today.  Robbie puts him out of his misery. 

“I shouldn’t have asked, should I?  But you might - do you know anything about Saint Ursula?” 

“As in Saint Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins?” 

“That’s a lot of virgins.  They weren’t from round here, I take it?” 

“It was probably one eleven-year-old transcribed wrongly by a monk, but eleven thousand makes a better story.  All the virgins were supposedly beheaded by Huns in Cologne while on pilgrimage to Rome and Ursula was shot by an archer.” 

Robbie looks impressed, “I won’t need Encyclopaedia Britannica while you’re around.” 

“Why are you asking about Ursula?” 

“Doesn’t matter, probably nothing.  You all right, Hathaway?” 

Somehow the beer, which is not nearly as strong as he is used to, has started to go to his head. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t be drinking.  With that knock on the head.” 

“No,” he belatedly agrees. 

He is also feeling unwell, but is inclined to blame that on the canteen mince, which is still sitting heavy. 

“Shall we head back?”  Robbie says.  “We need to sort you out a room for tonight before it gets too late.” 

As soon as he hits fresh air he starts to feel dizzy.  He manages to keep himself steady until they pass a Brewer Street bar. There is some generic progressive rock playing but suddenly the volume doubles and it is Thin Lizzy again.  The Boys Are Back in Town at full, intrusive blast. 

Either the song is more popular than he ever imagined or he knows what’s coming next.  He only has time to hear Robbie say, ‘Oh, bloody hell’ before the world shuts down. 

_Inspector Lewis is shouting._

_“Someone help him, there’s something wrong.”_

_There is a confusion of far off voices._

_‘Resus!’_

_‘Start CPR!’_

_‘Come on James, stay with us.’_

_‘He’s back.’_

_He finds Inspector Lewis among the voices, “Well done, lad,” he says.  “Well done.  No more shocks like that though, eh, James.”_

When he opens his eyes, he is still in 1976, down on the pavement, half collapsed against Robbie.  They have drawn a small crowd of passers-by who drift off when they see he has woken up. 

“I wish you’d warn me when you’re going to do that,” Robbie says, letting James lean against him until he has recovered, leaving his hand to rest on the back of his head.  “Okay?” 

“Yes,” he says. 

Although apparently, in some other place, on the other side of his consciousness, he stopped breathing. 

Someone from the bar arrives, “The ambulance is on its way,” she tells Robbie. 

“Not again, I’m fine,” James says.  

“You lost consciousness, man,” Robbie says, quietly insistent.  “Get yourself checked out, for Christ’s sake.” 

The ambulance arrives before he can muster the strength to properly resist.  After another few hours at St Thomas’s where the tests and checks are repeated and a couple of new ones added, he is once again declared free of concussion, subarachnoid haemorrhage and anything else except time travel.  They want to admit him for observation but he refuses.  The NHS has enough problems without him occupying two hospital beds simultaneously. 

Robbie finds them a cab and they go back to the residence.  The night porter says there is already a room booked for him and his suitcase is in it.  When it is clear James has no knowledge or memory of how this came about Robbie looks even more troubled. 

*~*

James tries not to sleep.  He is reluctant to risk it after what happened.  He has no idea if sleeping in 1976 will kill him in 2006 or if that is the only way he can wake up.  He is determined not to put either theory to the test but inevitably, exhaustion pulls him under. 

Nothing happens.  He is still in the Police Residence lying on top of the bedcovers when Robbie knocks at his door the next morning.  He puts a cup of tea on the bedside table and does not ask why James is still in his clothes. 

“Is there anyone you can call, Hathaway?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Have you got a wife or a mother or someone who can come and get you?  You’re not well enough to work.” 

“No, neither,” he says although it occurs to him in a shiver of revelation that there is a mother out there; newly married and just moved into the estate manager’s cottage at Crevecoeur.  “I’m sorry about yesterday.  But I feel better and I want to work.” 

“Suit yourself,” Robbie sighs.  “I’ll let you get yourself sorted and then we need to see Markham.” 

James’ suitcase contains another appalling suit, this one powder blue, some horrible shirts and catastrophic ties.  All perfect fits.  If somewhere in 2006, his subconscious mind is creating all this he clearly needs to wake up and have a quiet word with it. 

There are toiletries in the case which make him smell like his father and when he showers he finds a trail of dark, angry bruises on his side and back. 

He admits to himself he isn’t particularly well.  It could be the bruises or the delayed shock of the accident but he thinks it is more than that.  It is a sense of dislocation which is almost physical; as if he has the worst kind of hangover or a permanent head rush, as if he has left some essential part of himself in a distant decade. 

When he is finally ready, Robbie casts a critical eye over him, “Are they all such snappy dressers in Oxford?” 

He looks down at himself, “I sincerely hope not.” 

*~* 

They find Markham alone in his office, smoking and leafing through a file. 

He sizes them up, “You boys look the worse for wear.” 

“Home via the pub,” Robbie says and James falls a bit more in love with him for not mentioning the detour to Casualty.  Robbie closes the door, “What’s happening, are we off the case?”  

“Commander Mallory’s orders are to keep looking for the girl.  I’m to report directly to him.” 

Robbie nods to the desk of the perennially absent DI, “What about him?” 

“I’ll handle Lott.” 

“I’m surprised at Mallory,” Robbie muses.  “I never trusted him.” 

“He can see the way the wind’s blowing.  It won’t be long before things change around here.”  Markham turns to James.  “Have you got any idea about what’s coming?” 

James is surprised at the question.  Even without hindsight it seems clear.  Senior Met officers, including Commanders, are being prosecuted for maintaining corrupt relationships with Soho pornographers and organised crime.  The Commissioner appointed to clean things up cannot continue to ignore what is going on in the lower ranks.  It should be obvious but why Markham thinks he, an Oxford DC, would have some particular intelligence about it is beyond him. 

“No sir, I don’t.” 

“And Thursday doesn’t know?” 

“I couldn’t say.” 

Markham gives him a long appraising look but then, abruptly, drops the subject, turning back to Robbie. 

“I’ve got Chrissie’s address from her mum,” he says handing over a handwritten note.  “She shares with some of the other girls from the club.  They might speak a bit more freely away from work.” 

*~* 

They drive to a street of rundown Victorian terraced houses in Islington.  Chrissie lives in a flat on the top floor of one the houses, sharing with four other women. 

It is late morning and they are just getting up, these girls from 1976, in nighties and dressing gowns, making breakfast and tapping ash into an overflowing saucer on the kitchen table. 

It is this that finally persuades him.  The whistling kettle, the pop of the foil-top milk bottle and one spoon extra for the pot.  The mingling scents of tea and toast and cigarette smoke.  These women are real and solid; he no longer doubts it.  Barring accident or illness, they will live their lives and age into the fifty-year olds of his own time. They are not characters thrown up by his subconscious mind, shifting dream girls who will evaporate when he leaves the room.  They are really here.  And he is too. 

Away from the club, their hostility has melted away to a residual wariness of the police.  They seem to like Robbie though, and in these days, he asks his questions in a gentle, authoritative manner which does not offend or frighten. 

Nevertheless, the story is the same.  Chrissie hasn’t been home since she left for work on Friday afternoon.  They have been phoning around her friends and exes ever since but no one has seen her. 

James notices that one of the women, the one who told him to ‘get lost’ yesterday, has kept silent through Robbie’s questions.  He asks her to show him Chrissie’s bedroom and she peels herself away from the wall she is leaning against, leaving him to follow.  

It is a small room; just large enough for two single beds, a wardrobe and chest of drawers.  There are two sets of possessions here and no sign anyone has recently packed a bag and left.  There is a picture of two smiling girls taped to the wardrobe door, both dark haired and dressed glamorously for a night out. 

The young woman has stayed to watch him search. 

“It’s Tracey Moore, isn’t it?”  He asks. 

“Mind your own business.” 

He turns to her.  She is tall with a strong, slim dancer’s body.  Her hair is dyed blonde and tied back, her eyes pale hazel.  By her accent, she is a Londoner.  At the club last night, she had transformed herself with mascara, lipstick and blusher.  Without make up and in a long Marc Bolan t-shirt, she looks like a child.  

“Do you share this room with Chrissie?” 

“I didn’t say I’d answer your questions.” 

Robbie comes in in time to catch the end of this exchange, “Hello Tracey,” he says. “Are we cooperating?” 

“Is he new?”  She asks Robbie. 

“He’s visiting from Thames Valley police.” 

“What’s Thames Valley?” 

“I work in Oxford.” 

“Where Chrissie’s from?” 

“That’s right,” Robbie says.  “He’s not local, you can trust him if you’ve got some information?” 

“I don’t,” she sighs.  “I don’t know.  I might have.” 

“Try us.” 

“I’m quitting Sonny’s, I’m not going back,” she says, sitting on the edge of one of the beds, tugging her t-shirt down to cover her knees.  “The money’s good but I’m not going to watch all my mates go the same way as Chrissie and Denise.” 

“Who’s Denise?”  Robbie asks 

“I knew it.  I knew you wouldn’t know.  I told Chrissie she was wasting her time reporting it.” 

“Start from the beginning.” 

“She called herself Chelsea but her name was Denise Litton.  That’s her with Chrissie.”  She points to one of the women in the photograph.  “They shared this room.  Chrissie told the police when Denise went missing.  She walked in through the door of West End Central and reported it to one of those useless bastards.” 

“Was Denise a dancer too?” 

“Yes, Robbie, she was a stripper.  I know you’re too polite to say it.  She’s beautiful, trained as a ballet dancer, all this long auburn hair and a Marilyn Munroe figure.  She brought in the punters but Campbell wasn’t satisfied with that.  He wanted her on the game as well.  She would have; she isn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but Chrissie wouldn’t let her.  He tried to give her drugs too but Chrissie wouldn’t let her take them either.  And then, one day, she just disappeared.” 

“What do you mean, disappeared?  She couldn’t have gone voluntarily?” 

“No chance, all her stuff’s still here.  She just vanished.” 

“Who did Chrissie speak to at West End Central, do you know?” 

“How should I know?  She trusted the police because they’re all so flipping fantastic in Oxford.  She would have just gone to the front desk.  When nothing happened, she started speaking to people about their friends and making lists.” 

“What sort of lists?” 

“Girls who had worked for Sonny and disappeared.  She said he was doing something to them.” 

“Did you see the list?” 

“I’ll write it down for you.” 

“What do you think about it?”  James asks as she finishes writing down names in Robbie’s notebook. 

She looks uneasy, “She got obsessed.  The list went back about five years and most of the girls on it had been on drugs.  They never last long.  And some of them just left.  It’s not a job for life, is it?”  She adds notes against some of the names.  “This girl got pregnant and went back up north, and this one went home to do her A’levels.  Just because you’re not in Soho, doesn’t mean you’re dead.”  Her expression clouds.  “Though there were some, I don’t know, I always wondered about them too.” 

“Put a line under those ones, will you, love?” Robbie says. 

“Do you know what Wonderland means?” James asks when Robbie has put his notebook away and taken the photograph from the wardrobe door. 

“Some of the girls say it.  It’s what happens when you cross Campbell.  You go to Wonderland.  I don’t know what it means.” 

“Is it a place?” 

“I don’t know, maybe.”  She turns to Robbie.  “Is it true Campbell sent someone to run you over yesterday?” 

“How do you know about that?” 

“Half of Soho saw it.” 

“How do you know he was responsible?”  James asks. 

“He didn’t ask my opinion, if that’s what you mean.  He didn’t say ‘what do you reckon to this, Trace?’  But everyone knows Campbell hates you because you’re not for sale.  You better watch it, Robbie.  And your mate, Detective Sergeant Robert Redford, because you’ll both end up going to Wonderland too.” 

Of course, she is right and James is annoyed with himself for not making the connection.  He arrived in the middle of an attempt on Robbie’s life.  He needs to make sure it doesn’t happen again.  

“What will you do?” Robbie asks.  “Once you’ve left Campbell?” 

“I don’t know.  Another horrible club, probably.” 

“Ah, you’re young, you’re clever,” Robbie says.  “Go and train for something.” 

She laughs, “Yeah, all right, if you say so.  I might try brain surgery.  I’m moving house anyway.  This place is for sale so we’re all on notice.” 

“You should buy it,” James says.  “If you can afford it.” 

“This dump?  The landlady can’t find anyone to palm it off on.  She had to drop the price.” 

“Seriously, a house in Islington, rent out rooms.  In a few years, you’ll be rich.” 

Robbie shakes his head sadly, “He had a bang on the head yesterday.  He might need a bit of brain surgery if you can manage it.” 

“You’ll see,” James says. 

*~* 

“Is Campbell a serial killer?”  James asks when they have said goodbye to Tracey and are driving back to the station. 

A combination of the suspicions Robbie and Markham already harbour and Chrissie’s list-making has made this case about more than one missing woman.  Anywhere between five and fifteen disappearances in the last five years and the suspect in his lair, adjusting his bow tie, as though nothing can touch him. 

“We don’t know anyone’s dead,” Robbie says, sounding for the first time like the older, harder man James knows.  “We go on as if they’re alive.” 

Robbie’s desk at West End Central is alone in a windowless annexe subject to draughts of cold air from a ventilation shaft.  He has been edged away from the smoke-filled open office the other DCs share and this, he says, suits him fine. 

He clears a space for James to work opposite and suggests he make a start on investigating Campbell’s business interests and the obscure references to ‘Wonderland’ that dog him. 

The world before google or even a basic database moves at a slower pace but it suits James’ old scholarly habits and he doesn’t flinch when presented with bulging files of licensing documents and a pile of trade directories and phone books. 

“See what you can find in that lot,” Robbie says.  “I’m going hunting for missing persons reports.” 

James starts working but he is bothered about Wonderland.  He is starting to worry it somehow describes what has happened to him.  Perhaps these women have fallen down some rabbit hole into the past and are now dodging bombs in the Blitz.  

But he discovers ‘Wonderland’ or ‘Alice’s’ or ‘The White Rabbit’ are common names for businesses.  In London alone there are clubs, shops of various kinds, a restaurant and a gallery all wanting to appear a bit psychedelic, a bit trippy, a bit magical. 

Campbell is not the registered owner of any of these concerns and phone calls exclude most of them.  However, one, a boutique called Wonderland, selling clothes distressingly described as ‘groovy’ in a Yellow Pages small ad, is on Brewer Street, a few doors away from Sonny’s.  Its registered owner is given as Daisy Randall but Campbell could still be behind it.  He is scribbling down the address when Robbie comes back. 

“You haven’t seen Markham, have you?”  Robbie asks. 

James shakes his head, “Have you found something?”  

“Chrissie did report Denise missing,” Robbie says.  “It’s all recorded in the book by the desk sergeant who passed the file to some useless bastard called DC Lewis.” 

“You?” 

“It was the week I was at my cousin’s wedding in Gateshead, so he did well to track me down.” 

“What about the others?” 

“There was a report on Sheila Adami from her flatmate from December seventy-two. I couldn’t find that file either. Otherwise some soliciting cautions for a couple of the other girls, that sort of thing.”  Robbie runs hands through his hair in a gesture of helplessness. “How about you?  Anything?” 

James hands him the address of the Brewer Street boutique. 

“Want to get some air?” 

“Anything’s better than the stuff in here.” 

*~*

Wonderland is at the Wardour Street end of Brewer Street.  It is decorated in psychedelic colours and is as groovy as advertised, selling new and vintage clothing for hippies, mods and glam rockers. 

David Bowie’s sweet and soulful Young Americans album plays as they talk to Daisy and her young assistant, Billy.  She is in her thirties and has the tall, model looks of someone who might have hung out with the Stones in the sixties.  Her daughter is called Alice and she named the shop for her.  She is irritated by the overwhelming presence of the sex industry in Soho and is looking to move on, perhaps to the Kings Road or Carnaby Street. 

“I don’t mind a bit of the blue stuff; this is Soho, after all.  But it brings in the wrong sort when there’s so much of it.  And then there’s the gangsters demanding protection, people selling drugs on the street, rotten plumbing.  It’s going to drive the decent people and honest businesses away if something isn’t done.” 

They ask her about her business and she produces documents that prove it belongs to her. 

“I don’t know Sonny Campbell,” she says.  “But some of the girls and boys from the clubs come in.  Poor little scraps.” 

Robbie shows them the picture of Chrissie and Denise together. They both only recognise Denise. 

“She looked like Raquel Welch, someone like that.  It’s why we noticed her.” 

“Did she come in with anyone?” 

“Yeah,” Billy says.  “One time she came in with a bloke and Daiz said, they make a good-looking couple.” 

“Good looking, how?”  Robbie asks.  “Can you remember what he looked like?”  Neither of them can.  “Not short and stocky?” 

“Probably not, because she was so tall and elegant and they matched.”  

James sees Robbie’s thoughtful expression.  He recognises it.  It is the sign of an idea starting to take shape. 

“Speaking of which,” Daisy says casting an expert eye over James.  “I’ve got just the thing for someone your height.  It came in today.” 

She produces a black leather jacket from a rack.  It is from the fifties, she says, and is as long as a suit jacket on him.  It is in good condition, though well worn.  He tries it on while Robbie rolls his eyes and asks Billy to show him the back of the shop.  It is a perfect fit and while he would not normally choose something so used, he urgently needs to look less like a blond Osmond.  He examines the contents of his wallet and buys the jacket along with a black t-shirt and a pair of straight jeans Daisy miraculously finds in his size, changing into his new outfit in her fitting room. 

Next door to Wonderland is a sandwich shop and he calls to find out what Robbie wants.  Careful questioning of the owner, who rests his cigarette in an ashtray to serve him, establishes the egg mayonnaise is made with salad cream.  He asks for cheese and pickle, DI Lewis’ 2006 regular order instead.  There is a lone packet of ‘brown’ in the shop which he goes for once he establishes it is relatively fresh. The owner mutters something about the ‘Galloping Gourmet’ as he wraps the sandwiches. 

He is outside the boutique waiting for Robbie in the warm afternoon sunshine when he feels the sensory shift he has now started to recognise and hears an abrupt needle scrape bring Young Americans to an end. 

By the time it is replaced by the needle dropping on to ‘Guess who just got back today’, the opening lyric of the Boys Are Back in Town he has managed to sink down on to the pavement to save himself from a fall.  He soon starts to hear the voice of Inspector Lewis, warm and unexpectedly affectionate. 

“ _The woman you saved is fine,” he says.  “Not hurt at all and back with her family._ C _an’t let you out of my sight for a minute, can I?  You have one day off to go to some daft exhibition.  And chaos.  I’ve been down in London for a few days now and you know how annoyed that makes me.  So, I need you to wake up, James.  Can you do_ _that for me?  They say you’re responding less, that you’re deep inside this coma.  I know you, you’re busy in that head of yours, working hard, making yourself at home there, but the important thing is you find a way to get back to where you really belong.”_

When he comes to he finds Robbie and Daisy beside him. He must have slumped forward but Robbie has caught him. 

“There you are,” Robbie says, easing him upright.  “Land of the living.” 

“What’s the matter with him?”  Daisy asks. 

“Nothing, would you believe,” Robbie says, sitting down on the pavement beside him. 

He wants to start claiming he is fine but he feels sick and faint and cannot speak yet.  He sips from the glass of water Daisy hands him and, when he can, he takes his cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lights up. 

“Good idea,” Robbie says. “Finish the job.” 

It has been an odd habit of Inspector Lewis’ to sit closer than necessary.  As though the need for physical contact with another human, long denied, has to be resolved somehow.  His younger self, though surely not so solitary, is the same and James is embarrassed at how grateful he is for the solid security of his presence beside him.  

“We can forget about this place,” Robbie says when Daisy has gone back inside.  “They’ve got nothing to do with Sonny Campbell.” 

“They’re not really neighbours either, are they?” 

“You can see the back of Sonny’s from their backyard but that’s about it.” 

Robbie takes in James’ appearance which is apparently not encouraging and notes the betrayal of his trembling cigarette hand. 

“So, Hathaway, what’s the plan?  Just continue to insist there’s nothing wrong with you until your skull caves in?” 

“I’m not leaving you,” James says. 

“Me?” 

“Tracey’s right, Sonny Campbell’s a threat.  He’s already tried to kill you once.  I won’t allow that to happen.” 

“You’re a funny one James Hathaway,” Robbie says softly.  “Daft as a brush.  You’ve only known me a day, haven’t you?  You should be looking to yourself.” 

“I haven’t gone mad but, thank you, Robbie, sir.” 

“And we’re back with the ‘sirs’.  What are you thanking me for?  Letting you save my life?” 

“I might not be able to tell you in person when the time comes, so thank you.  For staying with me.” 

Robbie gazes at him in amused curiosity.  “All right, whatever you say.  When you’re ready to explain, I’m listening.” 

On the drive back to the station, James ponders what Inspector Lewis told him.  In the future, James has saved a woman’s life but Lewis did not name her as Marissa.  This suggests the circumstances of the accident have altered.  Even more strangely he implied James had not been with Lewis when it happened.  He had been on his own in London. 

If the voice he is hearing is really that of Inspector Lewis, the only explanation is, in saving Val’s life, he altered the course of history.  If this is the case, then his instinct is correct, and he is both here in the past and at the same time there in the future. 

If nothing else, it means he could help.  He and Robbie could find Chrissie and stop Campbell.  It also means other things could change.  Campbell could kill or injure Robbie for example. It makes no sense and yet he must act as if it is true and make sure it does not happen.  If he stops hearing Lewis’ voice from the future, then he might have to assume he fails. 

“That’s an improvement by the way,” Robbie says, nodding at James’ new jacket.  “Not exactly dress code but at least I won’t have to invest in sunglasses.” 

He has been suffering from buyer’s remorse. He suspects this is the sort of thing Inspector Lewis was getting at when he warned him not to feel too much at home inside his coma. Perhaps the terrible suits were carefully assigned to him, by who knows what, to make him feel out of place here, to make him remember his connection to his twenty first century home.  But he forgets all that when he hears the, scarcely detectable, note of appreciation in Robbie's voice. 


	3. And everything soon must change

Back at West End Central James and Robbie begin ploughing through records and files in earnest.  Sonny Campbell has never been arrested or prosecuted and there is nothing to indicate he has done anything since the late sixties other than run a strip club and a bookshop.  There are apparently no other business interests, no questionable associates, no parking fines.  There is not so much as a caution recorded against him. 

He does, however, regularly complete forms to maintain various licenses and that means a lot of paperwork which they methodically work through.  The forms contain little information of a personal nature and a lot about opening hours, square footage and capacity. 

Robbie unwraps his sandwich while turning pages, “What have you got against egg mayonnaise?” 

“I told you I wasn’t going to let you get murdered.” 

Robbie chuckles, eats without complaint and then wanders off.  When he returns, it is with two cups of tea and a pile of biscuits. 

“Do Jammy Dodgers present a threat of any kind?” 

“Not an immediate one.” 

They work on into the late afternoon, learning only that Campbell has done little else for nearly a decade but fill in forms and then, when James is starting to feel sorry for him, he sees something.  

“Saint Ursula.” 

Robbie looks up, “What about her?” 

He pushes the file across to Robbie.  This particular form, completed in 1967, asks for all previous home addresses as part of a process for checking credit worthiness and good character. 

“It’s a children’s home in Dagenham.  Campbell grew up there.  I’d forgotten, she’s one of the patron saints of orphans.” 

Robbie becomes extremely still as he examines the form.  Then, without a word, he gets up and walks away.  When he returns twenty minutes later he has four slim manila police case files.  He throws them down on the desk between them.  

“Missing person reports on Denise Litton, Marian Roberts, Karen Johannes and Sheila Adami.” 

“Where did you find them?” James asks. 

“Misfiled.” 

“But how did –?” 

“Never mind, just let’s get to work.” 

They read the files in silence and they all tell the same story.  One of Sonny Campbell’s employees leaves for work and does not come home again.  No one does anything about it. 

They try to telephone those who have made the reports and speak to two; Marian’s father and Karen’s boyfriend.  There is still no sign of their daughter or girlfriend and they are surprised to receive the call.  They have both been told by ‘the police’ that all the evidence points to a voluntarily disappearance.  There is nothing of this in the files. 

Robbie slams down the phone, “Five girls disappearing since seventy-two.  At least five girls.  All work for the same man, in the same place.  Come on, Hathaway, why are we sitting here?” 

“It’s not enough,” James says.  “We don’t have anything to connect Campbell to the disappearances.  It could easily be another employee or a regular customer.” 

“You don’t believe that.” 

“Doesn’t matter what I believe.  We need evidence.” 

“Then I’m going to take that damned place to pieces and find some.” 

James catches up with him on his way out of the department, having to grab his arm to stop his furious progress. 

“We’ve been through the shop and the club.  We didn’t find anything.   If we go barging in, guns blazing, without evidence or a clue about where to look, we’re going to put Chrissie at risk.  If she’s still alive.” 

“Then what do you suggest?” 

“The answer’s in the club, I agree, but we’ve got to tread carefully.  Speak to the staff again, speak to the neighbours, the customers, get into the upstairs flat.  Quietly, thoroughly.”  

Just as you taught me, sir. 

Robbie sighs, “Yeah, you’re right.  All right.” 

James, glancing back, glimpses Markham in one of the offices talking to a colleague. 

“There’s Markham, shall we run this by him?” 

Robbie doesn’t even turn, “I’ll see him later.” 

They spend an hour or so going door to door speaking to Sonny Campbell’s neighbours; the shops, restaurants and other adult businesses surrounding his.  To them, Sonny’s is just another club and Chrissie and Denise, occasional customers, if that.  No one particularly noticed their absence or has any idea about what happened to them.  ‘People come and go,’ they are told.  ‘This is Soho.’ 

They find the flat door to the brothel open, talk to the women there and conduct a futile search.  When they finally get to the club, Sergio allows them in and Sonny Campbell consents again to their presence.  His manner, however, is not accommodating. 

“Does your DI know you’re here?”  He asks. 

“You don’t seem concerned one of your employees has gone missing,” Robbie says.  They have agreed not to specifically mention the other women to him. 

“The tart fucked off, that’s what they do.  I don’t see what it has to do with me.” 

He does not stop them talking to his workers and this time, they frame the questions more widely.  They ask about ‘any concerns’ for friends.  It doesn’t get them any further, the wall is firmly up.  In this place, the police are welcome but not if they want to do any police work.  They find Lulu, who had first mentioned Wonderland.  She is sober now and angrily denies having said anything of the sort. 

James sees Martha who runs front of house.  Neither of them have spoken to her yet and when she slips outside for a break, he joins her.  He offers her a cigarette and a light, which she accepts and they smoke together. 

“You’re new, are you?”  She says. 

“Just here temporarily.  DC James Hathaway.” 

“Chrissie not turned up then?” 

“Do you know where she might have gone?”

“Not home to mum?” 

“Unfortunately not.” 

“She weren’t happy here, she had a bit too much spirit to put up with his malarkey.”  She jerks her head back to indicate where ‘he’ is located. 

“How long have you worked here, Martha?” 

“This street, twenty-five years.  I won’t tell you what jobs I’ve had.” 

“What about for Sonny?” 

“He kept me on when he took over the club in sixty-eight.” 

“He’s a good boss, then?” 

“I’m not complaining.”  She takes a drag on her cigarette.  “He weren't always like this.” 

“Like what?” 

She glances around to see if there is anyone to overhear, drops her voice.  

“Mean, a bully.  He was no saint; he was always a greedy bastard and out to con every last penny out of the punters.  But he used to be kind to his workers, especially the daft little kids.  He used to let them stay in the flat upstairs.” 

“When did that stop?” 

“Three or four years back.” 

“What happened four years ago?” 

“He started keeping prostitutes up there.” 

“But what changed?” 

Robbie comes out of the club and wanders over, shaking his head to let James know he has made no progress. 

“What happened four years ago, Martha?”  James asks again. 

“Nothing,” she says, putting out her cigarette.  “Nothing at all.” 

Something has silenced her; she will say no more. 

“Four years ago,” Robbie says.  “Andrew Markham arrived here from Whitechapel.  That’s Jack the Ripper’s patch, if you don’t know.” 

“And the police never caught him neither,” Martha snaps.  She gathers her fox fur and pushes past him to return to her post in the ticket booth.  

“Bloody hell, now I’ve upset Martha.” 

Tracey appears, just arriving for work.  She looks James over. 

“Blimey, you’ve changed your image.  One day in Soho and you’re dressing like rough trade.” 

“Didn’t think we’d see you here,” Robbie says. 

She sighs, “I’m worried about the other girls.  I’ll go when you’ve found Chrissie.  So hurry up and find her.” 

“We’re getting nowhere,” Robbie says bluntly. 

She stares at him, “Finally, an honest policeman.” 

“What’s your sense of what’s going on, Tracey?”  James asks. 

“How should I know!”  She says and then remembering where she is, lowers her voice.  “I’d tell you if I did, I promise.” 

“How long have you worked here?”  

“Nearly three years.” 

“So you must have known Marian, Sheila and Karen?” 

“Not Sheila, I took her job.” 

“Did they have anything in common with Chrissie and Denise?” 

“They were just people.  They looked a bit the same, I suppose.  Perverts like a type, don’t they?” 

“What’s been niggling at you about this?  What little thing?  What have you noticed?  Even if you think it’s stupid.” 

She takes the cigarette packet from James’ pocket, taps one out and gets James to light it for her. 

“Okay, don’t laugh.  I always got the feeling things started to get weird when he built the office in the shop.  Before that he had a room beside the stage so he always knew what was going on even if he was working.  In the bookshop, he’s cut off from everything so he hardly ever uses it.  He brings his paperwork into the bar.  It doesn’t make any sense.” 

“When did they build the office?”  James asks.  

“They started when I’d been here a few weeks, so the beginning of seventy-three.” 

All five women have gone missing since the end of seventy-two. 

They go into the shop again.  For James, it is the third time.  But despite the sense of wrongness Tracey senses and he is starting to feel, it is just a shop and the office is just an office.  

“Maybe Campbell thought he wanted a bigger office,” Robbie says. “Come on let’s go, let’s get something to eat, I’ve got something to tell you.” 

*~* 

They walk to a small Italian café with the colours of the Italian flag painted boldly on the front and Formica topped tables inside.  The owner greets Robbie by name and, although James’ appetite has not recovered, the food is impressively almost edible.  Robbie waits until they have eaten and ordered coffee before he begins. 

“About a month back, I was on the Strand,” he says.  “Me and Markham had been at the Old Bailey.  We’d put a murderer away, if you can believe it, and we’d gone for a drink to celebrate.  I’d just seen him off in a taxi when a man came up to me.  He told me his name and said to give his regards to ‘Andy’.  He said, if Markham didn’t recognise the name to just tell him ‘Saint Ursula’.  As if it was some kind of secret code.  So I passed on the message when I saw him next.  Markham was furious, he went storming out and didn’t come back all day.  I’d never seen him lose his cool before, not once and never since.  I asked but he wouldn’t explain.  Now I know, he didn’t want me to find out he grew up with Campbell at Saint Ursula’s.” 

“How do you know they knew each other?” 

“They definitely knew each other.  He hid those files.  I found them under his desk, shoved in with open, inactive cases, which, short of burning them, is pretty much the best way to guarantee they’d never be looked at again.” 

“So he’s protecting Campbell.” 

“I don’t want to believe it, Hathaway, but I can’t think of another explanation.” 

James watches as the extent of Markham’s betrayal plays out in Robbie’s eyes.  Even older, wiser Inspector Lewis never entertained a moment’s doubt about him. 

“Couldn’t it have been an accident?  Most missing person reports resolve themselves after a couple of days.” 

“There’s still a process, even at West End Central.  A DC or a PC has to follow up, even if it’s just to tick some boxes.  He should have given the files to me or one of the others.  Instead he phoned those men and lied to them.  This is different to turning a blind eye to what goes on in the clubs.  You might do that for a mate whose been through who-knows-what kind of hell with you but this is potentially kidnap, rape and murder.” 

He is already persuaded but they need to be sure.  Inspector Lewis in thirty years’ time needs to be sure.  

“But he’s been helping with the case.” 

“No, he hasn’t.  He sent us to do what we would have done anyway.  I bet he’s the one that told Campbell Chrissie wanted to make a complaint against him.  Got her into this mess in the first place.  Do you see?  He fooled your Fred Thursday into trusting him too.” 

“What do we do?” 

“In the morning, we’ll go to Vine Street nick and talk to the Chief Super there.  If he won’t do anything we’ll go to the Yard, I’ll speak to the Commissioner if I have to.  We have five connected disappearances; this justifies resources and an honest senior officer.  Assuming there are any.” 

*~* 

It is bright and warm when they leave the café; the streets busy and lively.  It is too nice an evening to sit in a pub so they walk.  Greek Street, Dean Street, Old Compton Street, sunlit and long shadowed. 

Soho starts to assert its true soul as they cover its well-trodden ground.  Not just clip joints and half-dressed girls in doorways.  Intellectuals and artists, the Colony Room, the Coach & Horses, jazz and metal, gay and straight.  Maison Bertaux, Fratelli Camisa, Gay Hussar, Bar Italia, French, Jewish, Irish, Chinese, Prussian.  The whole world washes up here at one time or another; escaping poverty and persecution, bringing languages, revolutions and pastries. 

They end up at Soho Square and take a bench in its park; Soho’s lone patch of green.   

“I’ve never seen weather this good,” Robbie says. 

“That’s because you’re from the North East.” 

“True.  Bet it won’t last, though.  Even in your southern paradise.” 

“It’ll last.  It’s not going to rain until September.” 

“Have you been reading the tealeaves, Hathaway?  Doing a bit of table tapping?  That’s not the first prediction I’ve had out of you.” 

“You’ll see.” 

Robbie closes his eyes, leans back, puts his face up to the sun. 

“What else have you seen?”  He asks.  “What’s coming our way in the future?  Flying cars, that type of thing?” 

James lights a cigarette and watches the upward curl of smoke into the breezeless air.  

_“And everything soon must change,”_ he says _.  “Men would set their watches by other suns than this.”_

“Just when I was getting to like this sun.” 

“The future’s just leftovers and spare parts, Robbie.  We’re sticking it together with Selotape and glue right now.” 

“The future’s one stupid decision after another.  What am I doing here, anyway?  I should go home.” 

“God, no,” he says, realising one possible unintended consequence of his meddling in the past.  “You should transfer to Oxford.” 

“Oh aye, I’ll fit right in there, will I?  Do they all go round quoting Shakespeare or whatever that was?” 

“Saul Bellow.  No, they think I’m a freak, too.” 

“They’re fools, then.  If they don’t appreciate what they’ve got.” 

He glances over, Robbie still has his eyes closed, fingers laced on his belly, perennially oblivious to the power he has to reduce James to liquid. 

Robbie opens his eyes and sits back up.  “Pub?” 

“Pub,” James naturally agrees. 

“You can have squash.  I’m not spending another night in Casualty.” 

But it is getting late and after one drink, they collect the car and head back to the Residence.  In his room, James worries through the developments in the case, tries to understand the new shape it has taken, growing as it is, and spreading like a stain. 

He has missed something crucial, he is sure of it. 

On top of that, he finds his collapses are getting harder to recover from; he is still ill from the last one.  He is hoping he can keep it together until this case is resolved, until he can be sure Robbie is safe.  Until he knows Inspector Lewis still lives.  And then what?  And then when? 

There is a knock at his door, it is Robbie. 

It is Robbie; no jacket, no tie, shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up. 

When he comes in, he stands, his hands in the pockets of his suit trousers.  He doesn’t speak. 

James closes the door, “Robbie?” 

“Aye, James.” 

He sees something he has never seen before in the man’s eyes. 

Another kind of shift in time, another kind of music plays. 

“I’m not wrong, am I Hathaway?” 

He spreads the palm of his hand flat on Robbie’s chest. A simple test, to prove this is no mirage, dissolving as he reaches for it.  He is back at square one, he is back in yesterday, adjusting to this other sun of a different century, feeling for the watch-tick of Robbie’s heart. 

“It’s beating fast,” he says. 

“See what you made it do.” 

The kiss is, at first, so gentle he wonders if he has misread the signs; if Robbie is too surprised to say, ‘that’s not what I meant’.  But Robbie takes his head in both hands and kisses him back. 

*~* 

In the early hours, they are together in James’ bed, covers kicked off, the window behind them open for any passing breeze, Robbie half on top of him, Robbie’s leg between his two legs, his arm tight around Robbie, his reason and logic insisting, ‘if this doesn’t convince you you’re dreaming, what will?’  

“I didn’t know,” James says. “You could possibly want anything like this.” 

“You didn’t know me two days ago.” 

“I can’t have.” 

“And I must be mad,” Robbie marvels.  “Another copper, in the Residence, someone who knows me.  You’re not my first, James Hathaway, but it’s been a while.  I don’t take the risk.  Do you?” 

“No, never,” he quietly admits. 

“You drop out of the sky, spouting poetry.” 

“I haven’t spouted any poetry.  But give me a minute.” 

“And suddenly you’re the only person I can trust.”  Robbie kisses him on the soft skin where his collar bone dips, rests his head and closes his eyes.  “Golden boy,” he murmurs.  “My golden lad.” 

_“Your lips upon my lips,”_  James quotes.

 “Hmm?” 

  _“_ Spouting poetry.  _Your lips upon my lips._ _And your eyes upon my eyes.”_

 “Saul Bellow?”

 “Victor Hugo.”

 " _Since I have known above my forehead glance and gleam,_

_A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always._

_Since I have felt the fall, upon my lifetime's stream,_

_Of one rose petal plucked from the roses of your days.”_

 “Bloody brilliant,” Robbie says, drowsily content.

 A car passes along the road outside, its headlights making shadow geometry across the ceiling, its radio a burst of sound. He tries to piece together the tune from the far away guitar. 

“That song again,” Robbie says more asleep than awake.  “It’s been following me.” 

He realises finally, it is the Thin Lizzy song he has started to dread and before he has time to understand that Robbie has been hearing it too, he is falling. 

_“I now am bold to say to the swift changing hours,_

_Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old.”_

_Took me a while, James, but I found it. Don’t know how you store all this stuff in your head._

_I’m off for the night, but I’ll be here first thing, hoping to find you back with us._

_“You’ve said one word.  One word, this whole time.  ‘Wonderland’.  I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if you’re where I think you are, for God’s sake be careful, especially in the bookshop.”_

When he wakes, his heart is pounding and the room turns and spins, flickering like a failing light fitting.    

When this turmoil subsides, he holds fast to snoring Robbie and tries to order his thoughts. Inspector Lewis remembers all this happening, Inspector Lewis sends the poem he quoted back through time to him.  The warmth and hope this brings him only diminishes when he remembers the urgent instruction to be careful in the bookshop.  But Lewis faded before he could tell him why. 

Could the clue to Wonderland be in the stock on the shelves, hidden in some secret stash?  Hard core porn, snuff movies, slavery, the possibilities stack up in ascending levels of horror.  Should their next move be to open every cupboard and drawer in the place, to examine every last piece of paper? 

But no, Lewis told him to be careful, implying some risk rather than a development in the investigation.  Martha said Campbell’s character had changed relatively recently and Tracey located her anxieties in the newly built office.  Sheila went missing just before it was made, the others in subsequent years.  

But what is there to fear?  Cluttered desks, filing cabinets, a notice board covered with free calendars and suppliers’ telephone numbers.  It seems the most innocent aspect of the whole enterprise. 

Then, at last, he remembers Marissa.  She appeared, seemingly from nowhere, from the direction of the bookshop after he had searched it.  Where had she been held?  How had she escaped?  There is only one possibility. 

“Eh?”  Robbie murmurs. James has woken him by sitting up. 

“It’s the office.  The office isn’t right.” 

“You what?  Office, what?” 

“Tracey’s suspicious of it, the boys who work behind the counter are terrified of it.  Campbell built a partition to make an office and wasted a lot of space.  Remember, you accused them of keeping illegal material behind a false wall.  I could understand if it were to conceal plumbing or electrics, but then there would be a clear way to access it.” 

Robbie rolls on to his back squeezing his eyes shut against this new and terrible way of waking up, “Maybe there isn’t anything to access, maybe it’s just cowboy builders who measured up wrong.” 

“I’ve seen a woman escape from Campbell.  I saw her run down Wardour Street after I searched the club and bookshop with – with my inspector.” 

“When?  What case?” 

“I can’t tell you.” 

“What do you mean, you can’t tell me?”  Robbie sits up and suddenly the space is too narrow for the two of them.  “What the hell?” 

James climbs past Robbie to get out of bed, switch on the light and take underwear from his suitcase.  

“We’re not going to get a warrant to search the shop at this time of night, are we?” 

“James?” 

“Please, you have to trust me.” 

“No, I don’t.  It seems like you’ve been lying to me from the beginning, just the same as that bastard, Markham.” 

“I haven’t had a choice.” 

“Oh well, that’s all right then, no problem.” 

“One day you’ll understand and you’ll forgive me.” 

Robbie stares at him, “Tealeaves again, Hathaway?” 

“I’m sorry, yes.” 

He turns to find Robbie still staring at him, but something has caught his eye. 

“James, look at you.” 

The bruises he noticed while showering have expanded and darkened.  He has been feeling so terrible he hasn’t even particularly noticed them in the whole miasma of pain. 

“How are you even on your feet?” 

“I’m fine, they’re just bruises.  What do you think about a warrant?” 

Robbie sighs, “Not much chance of it.  We’d need a sign-off from a senior officer before we could even apply.  Markham we can’t trust, Lott’s even worse.” 

“Markham mentioned Commander Mallory,” James says. 

“I think we have to assume he never spoke to him.  And that he’s as bent as the rest.  We’d probably have to go outside the borough.”  He thinks it through and shakes his head.  “We’ll lose days and that’s even if we had a strong case.  Which we don’t.” 

James gets dressed, pulling on jeans and t-shirt. 

“What are you doing?”  Robbie asks. 

“I’m going to the bookshop.” 

“You’re just going to break in?” 

“To tell you the truth, Robbie, Fred Thursday didn’t send me.  I am a police officer but, unlike you, I don’t have a job I can be sacked from. I don’t have a career I can ruin.” 

“And I ask again, what the hell?” 

“I want to tell you, more than anything.  But you’d have me carted off to Casualty faster than you can say ‘delusions associated with brain injury’.  I’ll go now and find Chrissie and, if she’s still alive, I’ll take her home.  Once that’s done, you do due process and arrest anyone who needs to be arrested.” 

He shrugs on his jacket and gets ready to leave, not looking at Robbie, avoiding the hurt he must have caused him. 

“Wait,” Robbie says.  “Just wait.” 

He turns finally. 

“I don’t know who you are but I know whose side you’re on.  I know you saved Val’s life and probably mine. I know you want to find Chrissie as badly as I do and you’re risking your health to do it.  You’re hiding something, but aren’t we all.  So I’m deciding for the time being, to trust you.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Yes well, you’re welcome, sir.” 

James sits down on the bed beside Robbie.  Even after everything they have shared, he cannot express the things he wants to say.  He cannot tell Robbie he has never met a better man. Or that, from what he is able to discern of the most mysterious emotion, he has loved him for as long as he has known him.  He is not sure he could form the words even in less strange circumstances.  He settles for bumping Robbie’s shoulder with his own. 

“You’re daft in the head, all right,” Robbie says, finding James’ lips with his own and kissing him lightly.  “And I’m a bloody fool.”

 


	4. I grow never old

 

“Right, so, where are we?”  Robbie says when he has picked through the clothes discarded on the floor and is quickly dressing.  “We’ve got strong grounds for believing a member of the public is in immediate danger in that bookshop.  We therefore have a duty to enter the premises using reasonable force.” 

“Robbie, you could lose your job.” 

“I don’t care, I’m done with the Met, whatever happens.  I’m done.  Come on, let’s finish this.” 

They make the short drive to Soho and it is after four when they arrive.  Sonny’s is locked up and the bookshop is in darkness having closed, according to Robbie, an hour previously.  There is no sign of Sonny or any of his staff but this does not mean one or two of them are not about. 

There are still people on the street, heading home or looking for a last drink or coffee but Robbie waits until there are no witnesses before breaking the glass on the bookshop door.  His hand slips and a shard puts a gash across his palm. 

While he wraps the cut in a handkerchief, James tries reaching around to unlock the door from the inside.  When this does not work, the two of them kick it open.  An alarm fractures the traffic-free peace of the night. 

“Bugger, we need to be quick.” 

They go behind the counter and, finding the office door locked, they kick that open too.  They shift the two filing cabinets which sit side by side at the centre of the partition wall. 

And there, at last, it is. 

There is a roughly constructed but lockable door just wide enough for an adult to pass through but no higher than the second drawer of the cabinets.  It must have suggested Alice’s adventures to someone who accidentally caught a glimpse of it. 

_“She came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before,”_ James quotes.  _“And behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high.”_

“Wonderland, is it?” Robbie says, putting his foot to it.  “We’ll see about that.” 

Stale air and the smell of damp hit them as they crawl through the doorway into a small space leading to a flight of stairs.  They switch on a light and take the stairs down to basement level.  They come to a narrow room stretching the length of the bookshop.  It has an unmade floor half covered by a piece of lino.  Chrissie lies on a mattress on the lino.  Her hands and feet are tied, her mouth gagged.  

At the far end of the room there are four long mounds of earth. 

Water from a broken pipe leaks down on to the graves, its pathway forming a green channel of mould on the wall.  

Robbie takes the gag from Chrissie’s mouth.  She is alive but injured and hardly conscious.  

“Chrissie, love,” Robbie says.  “Can you hear me?”  She shifts but does not wake.  “She’s probably been drugged.  Let’s get her out of here.” 

They are untying her when the shop alarm cuts out. 

“Someone’s here,” James says.  

They hear footsteps on the stairs and just as they finish freeing Chrissie, Andrew Markham appears. 

Robbie scarcely glances at him, “What are you doing here?” 

Open collared and unfocussed, a half-smoked cigarette in his hand, Markham looks the picture of a man who has put down a drink to attend to an emergency.  

“He was upstairs with Campbell,” James says.  “He heard the alarm.” 

“You’re a bloody disgrace, Markham,” Robbie says.  “I know you hid the missing persons reports on those women.” 

“I’m impressed you found this place,” Markham says.  “How did you work it out?  Good, honest police work, knowing DC Lewis.  How is she?” 

“She needs help,” Robbie says.  He nods to James to get Chrissie and he gathers her into his arms and picks her up. 

“Put her down please, constable.” 

James ignores him and they push past him up the stairs.  They are met half way by Sergio, Campbell’s man, who carries a handgun.  He nudges James and Robbie back down.  Close behind is his brother, Ricky who is also armed. 

“Where’s Mr Campbell?”  Markham asks. 

“He is phoning to the police,” Sergio says.  “Because the alarm.  Telling them not to come.” 

James lays Chrissie back on to the mattress.  She moans and opens her eyes, finally regaining consciousness.  Her gaze alights on Markham and she grabs James’ arm, “Be careful,” she whispers.  “Don’t trust him.” 

“I’m curious, Hathaway,” Markham says.  “Who are you, exactly?  Not police as far as Fred Thursday is concerned.  He’s never heard of you.”  

“Even a non-existent policeman is Dixon of Dock Green compared to you,” Robbie says.  “Why would you protect Campbell?  When you must know what he’s doing down here.” 

Markham finishes his cigarette and crushes it underfoot, “We were boys together in a terrible place.  It made him like this; he can’t help himself.” 

There are more steps on the stairs as Campbell makes his way down, heavy footed and angry.  

“Is that you blaming me, Andy?”  He says, taking in the scene.  “Cops now, Jesus Christ.  Haven’t I got enough corpses in my effing cellar?” 

“After all I’ve done for you, Sonny,” Markham says, fixing him with a fierce gaze.  “I’ve kept you out of prison for years.  Remember.” 

“Fucks sake,” Sonny says. 

Markham starts to examine his fingernails.  The gesture recalls the first time James saw him.  A nervous habit stretching down the decades, an unconscious vanity or something else?  He looks at Markham’s nails as he starts to pick at them.  Even in this poor light, he can see the dark specs beneath them.  A man so careful with his appearance.  He looks at Campbell’s nails, at Sergio’s, at Ricky’s.  They have the pink, spotless nails of any man who puts on a bow tie to go to work. 

Then he gets it.  It is blood and clawed skin and cellar dirt.  

“He’s not protecting Campbell,” he says.  “Campbell’s protecting him.  He’s the murdering rapist, not Campbell.” 

“Don’t say it like that, Hathaway.  I loved all of my brown eyed girls.” 

Markham watches with interest as the absolute horror of realisation hits Robbie.  There must only be tinfoil where this man’s heart should be. 

In the next moment, Robbie is flying at Markham.  He gets him onto the floor in an ungainly wrestle, pushing his face into the ground while the other man struggles and curses.  It is so far from what James would have expected of sober, measured Inspector Lewis it takes him several seconds to understand Robbie might kill him.  He pulls Robbie away, holding him by both arms. 

“Stop it,” James hisses.  “Stop it.” 

“You’re a fucking wild animal, Markham,” Robbie shouts. 

Markham dabs at a cut on his chin, “You were so easy, Lewis.  It wasn’t even a challenge.” 

Robbie stares at him.  He must see him clearly for the first time, see what he is; another criminal who needs to be stopped.  James releases him as he calms. 

“What are you waiting for?  Just do it,” Markham tells Sergio and Ricky.  “Finish them off, and the tart.” 

The brothers look to Campbell who goes through a visible process of weighing up the pros and cons.  Markham might be the killer but he is an accessory and up to his neck in it too. 

“Yep,” Campbell says.  “Do it.” 

James can sense Robbie’s watchfulness.  He is used to following Inspector Lewis’ lead, picking up on his wordless cues.  Although, usually, the only thing at stake is interview room strategy, it has always served them well. 

“Listen Sergio, you don’t have to do this,” Robbie says.  “I know you haven’t had anything to do with what’s been going on down here.  Do you really want to go to prison for murder?  You do this and you and your little brother are finished.” 

Sergio glances at Ricky.  They make an instant assessment of the likelihood of justice prevailing. 

“Robbie and his friend,” Sergio says.  “Please face the wall and put your hands somewhere we can see.” 

James now understands why he is here.  He has somehow fallen backwards into time in order to stand in this cellar, next to Robbie Lewis, and have this fight.  He does not understand the mechanism of time travel but it is reasonable to suppose his unconsciousness in 2006 opened the door to 1976.  It is possible, even probable, his death here is the only way to reverse the journey and go home. 

But Robbie also dying is the one unacceptable outcome.  He will not allow Robbie, his Inspector Lewis, to be murdered because he came and changed history.  He gets ready to fight. 

Robbie gives him the briefest of nods. 

They lunge together, Robbie going for Sergio, James for Ricky.  With the advantage of surprise, James gets hold of one of the guns and Robbie sends the other spinning out of Sergio’s hand.  Sergio and Ricky barrel forward trying to retrieve their weapons and Markham launches a long-legged kick that knocks Ricky’s gun out James’ hand.  He picks it up and puts it to James’ temple.  A gunshot stops time.  

For a moment, James imagines he has been shot.  But when he turns, when everyone turns, it is Markham falling, blood pouring from his side. 

Chrissie is kneeling on the mattress with Sergio’s gun in her hand. 

James gets hold of both guns while Robbie drops to his knees and attempts to stem the bleeding from Markham’s wound with an old towel. 

Sergio grabs Ricky and the two of them disappear upstairs.  Campbell, after glancing at Markham, attempts to do the same. 

“Not you,” James says pointing one of the guns in his direction.  “On the floor, face down.”  

Sonny says, “All right.”  He seems relieved the nightmare is finally over. 

Only a few seconds pass before they hear murmuring voices and more steps on the stairs. 

“Now what,” Robbie says, “Did we send out printed invitations?” 

One of the voices belongs to Tracey.  She descends into the basement behind an armed, uniformed Met officer and two men James does not recognise; an older one in an overcoat and porkpie hat and a younger one with fair brown hair in a well-worn raincoat. 

“DI Fred Thursday, Thames Valley Police,” the older man says.  “This is DS Morse.  You there with the guns, put them down on the floor please.” 

James does so and Morse, the man himself, retrieves them, making them safe and pocketing them.  

“Now,” Thursday says.  “What have we got here?” 

Tracey has spotted Chrissie, still kneeling on the mattress.  She goes to her, pulling her into her arms. 

“Chrissie’s here, that’s good.”  

Thursday calls back up the stairs and half a dozen uniformed officers from, what turns out to be, Bethnal Green police station come down. 

“Get an ambulance for this young lady and make sure one of you stays with her at all times.  Is that Markham down there?” 

“Yes, sir,” Morse says. 

“We’ll have an ambulance for him too, please.  Step lively.” 

Morse glares at James, “Who shot him?” 

“I did,” Chrissie says.  “He did all this.  Denise is dead, Trace.  And Sheila and Marian and Karen.  He did it.” 

Thursday gazes at her, “Ah, no.” 

“Is one of you Lewis?”  Morse asks.  Robbie frees a hand to retrieve his badge and show it to him.  Morse turns to James, “And you, who exactly are you?” 

“Good luck with that one,” Robbie says. 

*~* 

The police from Whitechapel arrest Sonny.  Sergio and Ricky are already in custody having run into them outside the shop.  Chrissie and Markham are taken to separate hospitals under guard.  Tracey goes with Chrissie. 

Thursday and Morse remain in Soho with some of the Whitechapel officers, primarily to keep West End Central away from the basement crime scene.  They have the Metropolitan Police Commissioner himself woken up and called out to ensure things are handled as they should be. 

Robbie and James are taken to an interview room at Bethnal Green.  When Morse and Thursday finally arrive, Morse proposes arresting them both until everything is explained to his satisfaction.  He assumes any Met officer must be a criminal of some kind and seems to have good reasons for this belief. 

James is too exhausted to argue with someone who, in his own time, is as mythical as Dionysus and rests his head on pillowed arms. 

“Is he all right?”  Thursday asks. 

“Opinion’s divided,” Robbie says. 

“Miss Moore thinks these two are honest,” Thursday reminds Morse, lighting a pipe and filling the room with the sweet, woody scent of pipe tobacco.  “And, in fairness, they did crack the case.  I seem to remember a young constable who used to break the odd rule in the interests of justice.” 

“I seem to remember he spent a month behind bars for his trouble.” 

Morse has been examining the Thames Valley badge James arrived with, “This looks real.” 

“Maybe we should give him a job, seeing as he’s already got the badge.”  

Having survived Sonny Campbell’s basement, James realises he might be obliged to take up this offer.  What if he’s stuck here?  With no decent coffee this side of Rome for a quarter of a century.  He imagines catching up with himself in the early twenty first century.  Perhaps he could be his own sergeant.  He shudders at the thought. 

If he worked for Thames Valley, it would have to be in a different station to Morse; it’s been ten minutes and he already wants to punch him. 

“Haven’t you got anything to say about impersonating a police officer?”  Morse asks. 

“Yes,” he says sitting back up.  ” _I’ll be back_.” 

“What?” 

“Actually, that’s a good joke,” James tells them.  “Terminator.  You’ll see.” 

“The bash on the head he had a couple of days ago knocked a few screws loose,” Robbie says, not unkindly.  “I wouldn’t expect much in the way of straight answers.” 

Cups of tea are brought and Robbie gives a report of how they found Chrissie and uncovered Markham.  His statement is noted down.  The only gap in the narrative is an explanation of James.  

“If you don’t mind me asking, sir,” Robbie says to Thursday.  “How did you come to show up when you did?” 

“Markham telephoned me to check this gentleman’s credentials and I was curious to know who was using my name and making himself out to be one of my officers.  I still am.  Morse and me stopped at Chrissie’s flat to see if she had turned up there and spoke to Miss Moore who was just getting in from work.  She’d had a worrying conversation with the boy who works in the bookshop who’d heard noises from the basement.  We couldn’t get hold of Markham or yourself so we thought we’d take a look.” 

“Tracey solved it,” James says.  “We could have stayed in bed.” 

Mid-morning, a contingent arrives from Soho with a request from Commander Mallory for constables Lewis and Hathaway to be handed over for questioning.  For their trouble, they get a mouthful of cockney from the DI in charge, an old mate of Thursday’s.  Thursday suggests Robbie and James should return to Oxford with himself and Morse until the dust settles.  James sleeps most of the way in the back of Morse’s car. The sickness he has been ignoring asserts itself and by the time they draw up at Thursday’s house he has a fever. 

*~* 

Thursday’s wife, Win, greets them at the door.  She hugs Morse and waves the visitors into the living room.  James collapses, uninvited, onto the sofa and covers his eyes against the bright light of early afternoon.  He feels Robbie’s palm on his forehead, the quick brush of his fingers in his hair. 

“First things first,” Thursday says.  “Morse can take Lewis to have his hand seen to.  That’s going to need stitches.” 

At Bethnal Green, they had put a dressing on the cut Robbie sustained breaking into the bookshop but it has not stopped bleeding. 

“Not you, Hathaway,” Thursday says as James tries to rise.  “You’ll have a lie down.  Win’s making up the spare room now.  Don’t worry, Morse will stay with Lewis.” 

“It’s fine, James,” Robbie murmurs. 

When they have gone, he makes the bold claim that he can get himself to bed and after Win shows him room, bathroom and stripy pyjamas, they leave him to it. 

Soon though, there is a tap at the door and Thursday comes in with a glass of water which he puts beside the bed.  He draws the curtains, switches on a shaded bedside lamp and settles himself in an armchair. 

“Win said not to bother you, but I’ve got some questions.” 

“I might not answer them all.” 

“Lewis seems to think you have an undiagnosed head injury, is that why?” 

“I didn’t think so.” 

This bedroom makes him wonder.  Ornaments on crochet doyleys, framed landscapes, quilted bedspread.  This is how people are meant to live in moderate, grown up ways.  This is how the surface of the planet ought to be adorned.  What if this is where he actually belongs and everything he has imagined taking place on polished oak floors, with espresso, over Wi-Fi are delusions manufactured from a science fiction he once read?  Tumbling from some overstuffed cupboard under the stairs of his subconscious when the Morris Marina hit him. 

“The doctor’s coming to see you later, anyway.” 

“There’s no point, I’ve seen two already.” 

“So one more won’t hurt.” 

“I knew a Hathaway,” Thursday says.  “Up at Crevecoeur Hall.  Any relation?” 

“I was at Crevecoeur when I was a child.” 

“What’s Philip to you?” 

“I can’t say.” 

Not even at the best of times. 

“I know he’s a bit of an awkward article, but I liked him.” 

“What did you catch him at?” 

“He was helpful, as it goes.  Didn’t go around impersonating police officers either.” 

The wretched ID.  Why did it magic itself into existence without a credible back story? 

“The badge looks genuine, and you look genuine.  Not your average sort of the policeman, but neither is Morse and he’s one of the finest I’ve known.  You’ve risked your life a couple of times and you helped save Chrissie.  But you used my name and I want to know what’s going on.” 

The weight of this question crushes him; he cannot reply. 

“You can’t tell me or you won’t?”  Thursday asks. 

“Both.  I’m not being disrespectful.” 

“After Markham, I’m supposed to accept that?  I’ve had plenty of reasons to suspect colleagues over the years but I would have staked my life on him.  I never doubted him for a moment.”  He seems to grieve for the man.  Not over his death; he will survive, but over his duplicity. “I handed Chrissie over to him without a second thought.” 

James feels the sick pull of fever again and his eyes close, “Don’t blame yourself, sir.  Psychopaths are convincing.  He fooled everyone.” 

Thursday switches off the bedside lamp, “All right, no more questions.  Go to sleep.  You’re welcome here, whoever you are.” 

The music he hears is far away but he can still make out the familiar tune. 

_“That wasn’t so bad was it,” Inspector Lewis says.  “We’ve moved you to Oxford so your friends can come and see you.  I wasn’t sure about that journey but you were all right and I kept an eye on you the whole time.  Your temperature’s a bit high but they’re looking after that and they say you’re more responsive, reacting more to light and sound._

_“Laura’s been here, Jean Innocent, some of the lads.  Someone who maintains he’s your harpist.  Other people have window cleaners and barbers but you have a harpist.  Your dad and your sister have come a couple of times.  Why didn’t you tell me you’d just lost your mum?  You’ve listened to me going on enough.”_

_For a moment, he can feel the dry, warmth of Lewis’ hand in his.  He could almost open his eyes and ask him what he means._

_“Here’s another thing.  They say your heart was racing for a while, adrenalin pumping, the lot.  As if you were running or fighting or something like that.  I think you won that fight.  You, me and Chrissie.  Stopped me from killing Markham too.  I’m grateful for that.  But that fight is over now, there’s nothing more for you to do.  So I’m expecting you back soon, James.  I’m waiting for you.”_  

The evening and night pass while he loses 2006 and 1976 to bright, frightening fever dreams but when he wakes he is still in Thursday’s spare room.  Robbie is beside him in the small double bed.  He props himself up on an elbow to look at James. 

“Morning,” Robbie says, dipping down to kiss him. 

“Someone might come in.”  

“The door’s locked.  How are you?”

“Not sure, is the bed on fire?” 

“You’ve got a temperature.  Do you remember the doctor coming?” 

“Was she some kind of fish?  I remember a yellow fish.” 

“That was her jacket, and I don’t think you’re in a position to criticise.  You told her you were an island with eroding borders.” 

“What did she say?” 

“It was only to be expected.” 

And he is becoming transparent too.  He is vanishing, with only Robbie – the younger and the older - to keep him flesh and blood and whole.  Without them – him - he is a shade, a shadow, slipping and sliding away. 

“Your - did you get stitches?” 

Robbie presents a bandaged hand, “Four.  Didn’t pass out.” 

“Impressive.”  

Robbie strokes back his damp hair, “Listen, James.  Soon as it gets light, I’m going back to London with Morse.” 

“Why?  Why would you?” 

“Not to the nick.  We’re going to take Chrissie’s mum and dad to see her in hospital.  Tracey’s with her, we’ll see her too.” 

“How’s Chrissie?” 

“Markham really did a number on her, poor kid, but they think she’ll recover.  Physically at least.” 

“I doubt he started with Sheila.” 

“I know.  They’ll need to look at his time in the East End.  I missed it all, James.  I don’t know how I could have been so gullible.” 

“You weren’t the only one he fooled, he just had to work harder with you.” 

“I was easy, remember.” 

“No.  I know how brilliant you are.  If there was anything to see, you would have seen it.” 

Robbie gazes at him, “How do you know, James?” 

“I just do.” 

Robbie is silent for a time and James wonders if he has actually worked it out.  But whatever conclusion he comes to he dismisses with a perplexed smile. 

“So, this afternoon, Morse and me have got a meeting with the Met Commissioner, no less.  He’s setting up teams from outside to investigate Markham as well as what’s been going on in Clubs & Vice.  I reckon he’ll ask Morse to be involved.  

“Thursday rates him.”         

“I know, and he’d give you a run for your money in a quoting competition.” 

“I can’t believe you said that.” 

“I like yours better,” Robbie says, kissing him again. “But I told him, if they cut away the rot at West End Central, there won’t be much left.  The canteen lasses probably.” 

“No, they’re definitely going down for life.” 

“Oh, give over, it was just a bit of mince.” 

“Minced what, though?  No, don’t tell me.” 

He closes his eyes as the room starts to list like a ship taking on water. 

“James,” Robbie says.  “You are going to be all right, aren’t you?” 

He can’t say.  He is a transplant rejected by its host, a seed failing to germinate in too rich soil. 

“There’s not much wrong with you; that’s what the doctor says.  That’s what all those doctors said.” 

“Robbie, I might have to go.” 

“Go where?” 

“I don’t know.”  He anticipates a helpless plunge into emptiness.  “I’ve no Tardis, sir.  No silver DeLorean.”  

“You’ve lost me now.” 

“I’m trying not to let that happen.” 

“If you go, I’ll find you.  You’ll see.” 

_“Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer utters itself.”_

“You can still produce obscure poems out of the air, I’m not worried.”

 “It’s not obscure it just doesn’t exist yet.”

 “All right,” Robbie says.  “That’s the fever talking.  Rest now, golden lad.  I’ll be back before you know it.” 

*~* 

James loses himself again but this time his dreams open a window into the future.  He glimpses nurses, busy about a hospital bed, talking quietly as they work.  It is recognisably the twenty-first century and as real as Thursday’s house.  He cannot keep hold of it and when he wakes, he is still in Fred and Win’s spare room.  

Robbie is gone and Thursday is with him.  He is reading a newspaper while balancing a teacup and saucer on the arm of his chair. 

“It’s time you were awake.” 

He helps him to aspirin and a drink of water. 

“Robbie?” 

“Gone to London with Morse and Chrissie’s parents." 

It must be lunchtime because Thursday has a white bread sandwich on a plate. 

“Don’t look like that,” Thursday says.  “It’s fish paste, do you want one?” 

“I’m feeling nauseous.” 

“Suit yourself.  But when did you last eat?  I can do you some toast, a cup of tea?” 

These too, seem unattainable goals.  Even the thought of a cigarette repels him. 

Thursday finishes his lunch and begins scratching diligently at a crossword, throwing occasional clues James’ way.  Apparently, he makes a good Morse substitute.  That’s twice.  James wonders if there is room for the two of them to exist in this universe.  Or if they will, after a time, generate some kind of smartarse paradox which causes Thames Valley Police to pop out of existence.  Nothing now would surprise him. 

He might have said something of the sort out loud because Thursday decides he needs to be more proactive.  He makes James drink another glass of water, which he immediately throws up, helps him to the bathroom and back, gets Win to change sheets and find a clean pyjama top.  He proposes toast again, then soup, then soft boiled eggs before giving up and letting him go back to bed. 

James closes his eyes; the light is too bright again, the world too unstable.  He is storm-tossed and shipwrecked.  He wonders where he will wash up, because he assumes he is either dying or moving on. 

He feels a surge of affection for the Thursdays as Fred stands over him with an unlit pipe in his hand while Win attempts to take his temperature.  Staying in the seventies might not have been so bad.  Definitely better than the dying option.  He might have come to like this discontented decade.  Its lack of corporate polish appeals to him, its rough and readiness, its unwinnable fights, its power cuts and Angel Delight.  He could have bought fresh vegetables and survived the food.  He could have invented halloumi wraps and prospered. 

What if he could have made a life with Robbie?  Grown old at the same pace as him, neck and neck to the finishing line.  Taking their sergeants exams together, home via the local, sex when they’re off the rota.  Side by side on the couch of an evening; _Nationwide_ , _Play for Today_ , Mr Humphreys, Freddie Mercury.  Taking turns to put the rubbish out, to put the kettle on, take the dog for a walk. There would definitely be a dog. It would all have to be kept a deadly secret he supposes, no public displays of affection, no civil partnerships.  This would suit both their temperaments. 

He doubts he would ever have that kind of luck, whatever the decade.  If he goes back, if by some stroke of luck he can go home, he will have no expectations.  Inspector Lewis will have put his youthful experimentation behind him.  Inspector Lewis will have led a life unclouded by Val’s murder and history will have corrected itself.  He will be in a happy marriage with a woman he loves.  Or he will not wish to abuse his position as James’ senior officer.  Or he will think James too awkward and strange, just as everyone else does. 

If he goes back, he will not expect to be anything other than the inspector’s sergeant.  And this will always be enough. 

His visits to the future become more frequent.  Accompanied by the disorientating clatter of Thin Lizzy, he is subject to a lurching fluidity in time, forward and back, until it seems he occupies both eras simultaneously without being able to properly exist in either. 

In 2006 he cannot turn his head, but in his line of sight is his own arm on dark blankets and white sheets, trailing a tube, a wire.  He sees a window, a wall beyond, a square of blue sky, a grey curtain.  He occasionally sees staff in their uniform colours, but no visitors.  He starts to wonder where Inspector Lewis is. 

He starts to wonder where Robbie is.  He should not have let him go back to London where West End Central men wield their power unhindered and must realistically view him as a threat.  He should not have let him go with Morse who would be blown over in the first gust of wind. 

He has lost track of time.  Is it day or night?  How long have they been gone?  His questions bring Thursday to the side of the bed but no satisfactory answers.  Just reassuring noises, in tones usually reserved for children and lunatics. 

But he must alarm the household sufficiently, because when he is next able to focus on his surroundings, he finds he is in another hospital bed with other tubes and wires attached to other arms. 

Robbie is missing and these people are obsessed with fluids.  Thursday stays with him in 1976 but in 2006 there is still only a window and a wall.  What has happened to Robbie Lewis in 76 that has so suddenly disappeared him from 06? 

It is clear, if Robbie is to be found and saved he must find and save him himself.  He draws upon his reserves of strength and tips himself from the bed. 

“Bloody hell, what are you doing, you daft maniac!” 

Robbie. 

A pair of familiar arms grab him. 

“You’re here?”  James says, baffled, full of wonder. 

“Course I’m bloody here.” 

“I thought they’d got you.  I thought you’d gone.” 

“Not me, never me.  Never me, love.” 

He has lowered James to the floor and holds him among the bits of kit he has dragged down with him.  But the floor is a whirling sinkhole, the light is blinding and the room spins wildly.  His head falls against the steady watch-tick of Robbie’s heart and Robbie’s arms keep a firm hold.  But James is losing all substance and he cannot keep hold of what is not there. 

*~* 

It takes time for the shaken snow globe of his mind to settle, but when it does he finds he is still lying against the solid resting place of that chest.  But it is not, he realises, precisely the same chest.  The voice has changed too.  It is the same but different voice of an older man. 

“There you are.  You’re back now, James.  You’ve come back.” 

He is back; he knows even before he can focus on the superficial differences in technology, in style, in taste and smell.  The texture of the air seems altered; it is the thinner oxygen of a different altitude, the fabric of time stretched taut at the seam. 

He looks at Inspector Lewis and marks the changes thirty years have wrought on that face.  It is not so very different in its essentials.  He takes his hand and turns it, palm up.  He finds what he is looking for; the thin, pale line of an old scar. 

“Four stitches,” he says. 

“Didn’t pass out,” Lewis replies. 

“How?” 

“I hoped you’d be able to explain it to me.” 

He rests again against Inspector Lewis, who quietly holds him until staff, alerted by the crash and clatter of his fall, arrive to help him back to bed. 

Like a traveller in Faerie, he finds a week has passed for each of his days in 1976.  One of the nurses tells him Lewis has only left him to sleep and eat and only because he was made to.  James tells him to go home and rest, but he won’t. 

“You died, James.  I watched you die.”  His arms remember the shape they made as they embrace the air. 

“Sir.” 

“I blamed myself for not making you stay in hospital after the accident. But the post-mortem found nothing wrong with you and the cause of death was unknown.” 

“I thought I might just vanish into the air.” 

“You left a body.  I buried you when it was clear no one was going to claim you.  I thought, these last few weeks, I was going to have do it again.  You were gone a long time, James.” 

James watches him beside the bed giving absent attention to sheet smoothing and pillow arrangement, “You’re different,” he says. 

“I’m old.  I got here by the long way.” 

“No, I mean - has your life been different?” 

“I don’t remember another life.  Did I work in Oxford?  I must have because you knew me when you arrived.  Thursday helped me to transfer.  And I married Val.  I kept in touch with her and when I went back for the court cases we got together.  We married after she finished her teacher training and had twenty-five years.  You gave us that.” 

“You married Val?  She’s lovely.” 

“Was.  She’s gone now.  Four years ago.  A hit and run in Oxford Street.  That car got her in the end.” 

“I’m so sorry, sir.” 

“We’ve got two children, a boy and a girl.” 

“That’s what’s different about you.  A less lonely life.” 

As Lewis tells him of the milestones of his life and their own shared history, he realises he already knows.  A set of alien memories are forming, parallel to the original.  They become vivid as the originals fade. 

There are two iterations of the accident that sent him back, but he recalls neither clearly.  Lewis tells him he saved a woman named Marissa Xavier who was in town with her family for a matinee.  She did not see the car coming around the corner before she stepped out in front of it and is horrified at what happened to James because of her carelessness.  She visited him in St Thomas’s and told Lewis she had no idea what came over her; she is normally, if anything, over-cautious. 

“Why were you in Soho at all?”  Lewis asks.  “Your exhibition was in Kensington.” 

He consults his newly formed memories, “I don’t know.  I just knew I had to go.” 

“Funny, that’s what Marissa said.  She left her husband and kids in the restaurant where they were having lunch and went straight there.  She didn’t have a clue why.  Then there’s the car.  No one caught the plate or saw the driver and nothing showed up on any CCTV.  And there’s you with hardly a bruise or a scratch and no real reason why you couldn’t wake up.” 

They all had to be there to play their part.  He is forming a theory of nature taking extreme steps to right a terrible wrong, to reject a toxin.  He has not got far with it. 

“I suppose you won’t know this either.  I was Morse’s sergeant for thirteen years.” 

“Into each life some rain must fall.” 

“He wasn’t so bad once you got used to him.  Brilliant in lots of ways.  Gone now, as well, poor sod.” 

“And Win and Fred?” 

“He died in his bed at the age of eighty-seven, she went a couple of years later.  He never really got over Markham, especially after what they found in the East End.  Never gave up on finding out who you were either.  He made a study of the Hathaway clan.  I think he traced all of you back to Anne.  I said you were probably related to Shakespeare what with –“ 

“- all the poetry I kept spouting.” 

“He wasn’t far off though, he always thought Philip ought to claim you.” 

“I doubt he would now, let alone before I was born.” 

“I did wonder, when they named their little lad, James.  Thought I was going doolally.  But you said one day I’d understand.  I waited for something to come out at the trial or for Thursday to solve it but all I got were the little clues you left.  The drought, the DeLorean, the Terminator, all those hints about time travel, that poem that didn’t exist.  Remember?  _Prayer_.  I came across it in ninety-seven and that was it.  Your trail of breadcrumbs stopped.  By then it was all so long ago, I could convince myself I had imagined everything and I stopped looking.” 

“You did come the long way.  I should have been more careful.” 

“No, I didn’t mean that.  You had enough on your plate those few days.  For me, after Val died and my son left, it was all so hard.  I took some time and went overseas.  You knew that?” 

“You left a couple of years after your divorce from Dr Hobson.” 

“Bloody hell, seriously?  Don’t tell her, I’d never hear the end of it.  And then, when I’d just about given up, when I’d hit my lowest point, there you were, looking exactly the same as I remembered you, calling me ‘sir’, with that damned sign.  First I thought you just looked like the man I knew.  It took me weeks to accept you _were_ him and another few to understand you really didn’t know me or know anything about 1976.” 

“You never said anything through all those months.” 

“Ah, James, how could I?  What would you have thought?  I mean, even now.  This thing that happened, it’s impossible.” 

_“Although we are faithless, the truth enters our hearts, that small familiar pain.”_  

James remembers the row of graves beneath the Soho bookshop.  How many would have accumulated had he not gone back?  Perhaps Marissa was marked by her brown eyes to be the next victim.  Or perhaps she had simply stumbled onto something that put her in danger. 

Lewis tells him Markham was convicted of eleven murders.  The first seven victims, all sex workers, were found buried in the cellar of his Hackney house.  He is still in Broadmoor while Campbell died in prison after serving fifteen years for acting as an accessory to murder. 

The Ripper comparisons are inevitable and the case is now famous.  One of the books on the subject has a chapter on the ‘mysterious’ blond detective who helped DC Lewis.  It authoritatively concludes he was a relative of one of the Whitechapel victims.  Lewis never believed that.  Another, less authoritative, theory is that he was the Archangel Michael, patron angel of London, wielding sword of justice and vengeance.  

“I knew you were no bloody angel,” Lewis says and they both blush. 

“You’ll like this,” Lewis tells him.  “Tracey Moore joined the police.” 

“She took your advice and trained for something.” 

“She did, I like to remind her of that from time to time.” 

“You keep in touch?  Where’s she based?” 

“She stayed in the area through the clean-up in the late seventies and eighties.  She’s now Commander at West End Central.” 

“She outranks you, sir.” 

“Yes, thank you, sergeant.  She came to see you at St Thomas’s when you were having your snooze and went away to research reincarnation.” 

“What about Chrissie?” 

“To cheer her up after she got out of hospital, Tracey suggested they club together and put down a deposit on the Islington house.  Due to a certain person’s insider knowledge, they now own half the postcode.  Chrissie modernises them and rents them out for a small fortune.  She uses one of them as a women’s refuge, another as a half-way house for recovering drug addicts.  She’s done all right, though there’s something inside that won’t mend.” 

*~* 

James makes a speedy and complete recovery and is discharged from hospital the following day.  Lewis frowns over him. 

“Are you sure you shouldn’t stay here for a bit longer?”  He asks and then adds, “I feel like I’ve said that before.” 

“No ill effects, sir,” James says.  “Physical or temporal.” 

Lewis asks him to stay with him for a night or two.  He keeps glancing over; he seems to be expecting another vanishing. 

It is a different, more cheerful flat.  There are family photographs where there had been none.  He sees Val age twenty-five years in snaps and portraits and the two children growing up.  Lewis too, seems more at home in his skin, as if the man he knew before history reshuffled its deck had been living his life at odds with time. 

James at first worries he will not find common ground with this Lewis, who despite a still sharp grief, has more of his younger, livelier self about him.  But, he soon discovers, the fundamentals of the man are the same. 

“I’ve got something of yours,” Lewis says. 

He retrieves from the top of his wardrobe a suitcase, more scuffed and sun-faded than when he saw it last.  Inside is an appalling suit and a really great leather jacket. 

“I’ve been lugging this around for years.” 

“My jacket!  Thank you.” 

He shrugs it on and Lewis smiles slowly, “There you are, James, there you are.” 

“What happened to my other suit? I was thinking of giving that an airing. I’m sure I could bring back lime green polyester.” 

“You were buried in it,” Lewis says.  “And that’s a strange thing to say to someone.” 

It does give him pause, “Don’t worry, sir.  At least that fabric will never biodegrade.  I’ll be exceedingly stylish well into the next century.” 

“All right, clever clogs, it was the seventies, we didn’t know any better.” 

He takes James’ Thames Valley warrant card from 1976 from a drawer, “I’ve kept this too.” 

James holds it in the palm of his hand, feeling it’s solid reality.  Proof.  If he ever starts to doubt, here is proof. 

“Keep it for me,” he says and hands it back. 

*~* 

He remembers the story of the time traveller who accidentally kills a prehistoric butterfly and, on his return, finds his own time dramatically altered.  He spends his first evening with Lewis cautiously reviewing the last thirty years of history.  At first he finds no differences; the planet revolves around the same sun, the map of the world is unchanged, killer robots do not rule the earth, Tony Blair occupies Number 10 and everyone is still watching _Deal or No Deal_ and complaining about the same weather. 

But the more he looks, the more divergences he finds.  Riots and scandals, death, war and even natural disaster; the stream of history has been diverted and has produced a different set of events.  While some can be explained by Tracey Moore being good at her job or Morse and Lewis being a formidable team, most causalities are too obscure to fathom.  

An unknown number of people who would have been Markham’s victims lived on, which means others who would never have been born, including Lyn and Mark, now exist.  He presumes the opposite is also true and some people who had substance in the old reality missed out in this one.  Lewis, for example, has no knowledge of Chief Superintendent Alison Wild who had served her whole career in Thames Valley.  On the other hand, he seems to have conjured up Jean Innocent, who now occupies her office.  

Lewis wanders into the kitchen to put the kettle on and the sound of a certain Thin Lizzy song fills the room. 

“Oh God, not again,” he says and holds on for dear life. 

Then Lewis answers his phone and the music stops. 

“All right?”  He asks when he has finished telling Laura Hobson how James is.  “You’ve gone as white as a sheet.” 

“Um, never better, sir,” he says.  “But do you think you could change your ringtone?” 

He hands James the phone, “Me?  You put it there.  In the face of my objections.”  

“Why, what did you have before?  Ride of the Valkyries.”  

Lewis’ record collection has taken a new and worrying turn into Wagner, again thanks to Morse. 

“I had a bell, a ring.  A noise like a phone ought to make.” 

Which would never have worked. 

The following morning James goes out.  He finds himself at Val’s grave with fresh flowers.  He replaces the roses Lewis must have left there only a few weeks ago.  

Something makes him stray from her grave and, like a cursed ghost, he is drawn to his own.  Its headstone has been gently weathering for three decades but it has been well cared for.  Not long ago flowers had been left there too. 

The grave bears his name, date of death and a line from the Victor Hugo poem he once, long ago and only yesterday, recited to Robbie. 

_One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold._

*~* 

They drive to London and walk Soho’s transformed streets.  There are still sex shops, there is still sleaze, this is still Soho.  But the industry is licenced and the clubs are outnumbered by a new slicker, glossier, high energy Soho.  Whose soul is still threatened; not by gangsters and clip joints but by gentrification and corporate colonisation.  A themed bar stands where Sonny’s strip club used to be and there is a tapas restaurant next door.  A plaque on the wall names the four of Markham’s victims who died there.  

It is a warm day and they find themselves in Soho Square.  Its park is crowded with people taking advantage of the sunshine, but there is a bench to be had. 

“It was just about a week ago for you, wasn’t it?”  Lewis says.  “When we were last here together.  For me its half a lifetime.” 

It is a subject they have been skirting around; that warm evening, that sultry night. 

“Don’t ask me to be definitive about the passage of time,” he replies.  “Not yet.” 

“A touch of Alice in Wonderland syndrome, is it?  Fair enough.  What about forecasts or predictions?” 

“Naturally, I’m Mystic Meg.”  He thinks for a moment.  “ _The last humans, by the last flicker of a dying sun, spinning adrift on a voyage to the Milky Way.”_

“We’re back to, who was it? Saul Bellow?” 

“No sir, Midnight Addiction.  From the Rocketship album, 1973.” 

Lewis barks out an unexpected laugh, “I knew I shouldn’t have put you in with my LPs.  But I’m not surprised; when you had the chance, you gave me poetics instead of warning me about Margaret Thatcher.” 

“I think we’ve established we’re just making it up as we go along.  I could have just as easily magicked her out of existence.” 

“Aye, you’re right there.  Well, try harder, next time.” 

“Sir, are we going to be all right?  I mean, us.  After what happened?”  

He doesn’t know why he has picked this moment to speak, when he had intended never to.  Or why here, where half the world has gathered to throw Frisbees to the other half.  Except he knows the subject bubbles beneath the surface of their every conversation.  It always has.  And Lewis already has his answer prepared, it seems. 

“You needn’t worry,” he says, all calm, unreadable kindness.  “I don’t have any expectations of you.  It shouldn’t need saying, but you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t worrying and thinking.  You don’t have to feel awkward around me.  I hope we can be friends and work together, that’s all.” 

The heartbreak is no less acute for being anticipated.  James closes his eyes against the surprising threat of tears.  Lewis’ hand settles around his where it clutches his lighter on the bench between them. 

“James?  What did you want to say about it?” 

“I saw my grave.” 

Lewis pauses, “So then you know.” 

He looks down at the wonder of their hands together. 

“I don’t know anything.  What do I know?” 

“I loved my Val, never believe I didn’t.  With my marriage, I was blessed.  But those few hours you and I had, and these last months when a miracle happened and you were given back to me -” 

Lewis loses his words before the sentence is complete. 

“Then, I don’t understand.” 

“I’m from the past, James.  You must see that.  I’m more time traveller than you now.” 

“And in those days, in that vile place, you took a big risk coming to me.  Things are different now.” 

“Yes, they’re different; I got old, you didn’t.  You’re just starting out and I’m on the Saga bloody mailing list.” 

“Do you really think I care about that?” 

“But look at me, James.” 

“I am looking at you.  I only look at you.” 

James is overwhelmed by a sense of rootedness, of knowing, perhaps for the first time, where home is.  A sense he might never have been able to locate had he not spent three days feeling like a loose tooth. 

“I couldn’t have stayed there, in 1976, I didn’t fit.  Not with DC Lewis because he belonged with Val and Lyn and Mark.  My place is here and now, in this time.  Sir.  Robbie.”  

Lewis waits a long thoughtful silence before he asks, “What are you saying, James?” 

“My place is with you.  If you - do you still want me?” 

“Never doubt it,” Robbie says with a smile that wipes away thirty years.  “Never doubt it, golden lad.” 

 

End

 

November 2016

 

**Author's Note:**

> James quotes from Saul Bellow’s Mr Sammler’s planet and Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The poems are More Strong than Time by Victor Hugo and Prayer by Carol Ann Duffy. The time traveller who steps on a prehistoric butterfly is from the Ray Bradbury short story, A Sound of Thunder. The song is, of course, The Boys are Back in Town by Thin Lizzy, released in 1976 and in Lewis’ record collection all those years later!
> 
> The case and characters are (obviously) fictional but here is some background to the time and place; Soho and the Fall of the Dirty Squad  
> http://www.nickelinthemachine.com/2008/06/soho-and-the-fall-of-the-dirty-squad/
> 
> And this is a clip from the BBC TV series Life on Mars which gave me the time travel method. Highly recommended if you haven’t seen it. It’s quite slashy!  
> https://youtu.be/dWucqxbhV00


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